I'll Never Be Anybody's Hero Now
by salty-sarah
Summary: At the Wizengamot, Harry finds himself having a battle of wits with a very different opponent instead: Marcus Flint. Warnings for slash and major character death. Marcus/Harry. For my 300th reviewer, Lone-Angel-1992.
1. Chapter 1

**I'll Never Be**

Rating: M

Summary: At the Wizengamot, Harry finds himself having a battle of wits with a very different opponent instead: Marcus Flint. Warnings for slash. Marcus/Harry.

For my 300th reviewer from **To****Bedlam****and****Partway****Back** , Lone-Angel-1992. I'm so sorry it took a whole bleeding year. But thanks ever so much for believing I'd come out with it in the end (o: Also a great big shoutout to NaidaIldri for amazing run-throughs she did on such short notice. Thank you so much, you're an absolute sweetheart. Also a last mention to Cen, thanks for trying. Cheers.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, nor the lyrics of the Morrissey song the title comes from.

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><p><span>Chapter One<span>

"You're in quite the pickle, aren't you Potter?"

That was putting in rather lightly, frankly speaking. Awaiting him upstairs was a fully convened Wizengamot ready to sentence him for the illegal use of underage magic. Mr. Weasley had assured him that Hogwarts students never got expelled for things as trivial as this, but he'd also mentioned how a full Wizengamot session had never gathered _for _a case of illegal use of underage magic like this. It seemed like he was the exception to every rule- literally- and Fudge was going to run it- and him!- to the ground.

And just when he'd stepped away from Mr. Weasley for a breather, he'd run straight into a horror he'd thought he'd left behind two years ago. It looked like Hermione was right after all: he never went looking for trouble, but Fate really hated his balls.

Marcus Flint.

Marcus whatever-his-bloody-middle-name-was Flint.

He didn't reply, merely stared boldly back at the bulky Slytherin lounging in the flickering shadows of the torch-lit corridor. When he was younger, he'd been rather alarmed by Flint's size, but that was hardly surprising, considering the brute stood at an impressive six-four and had shoulders that easily filled the greater part of a double doorway. Although he'd been the terror of Hogwarts because of his sheer size back then, somehow, in the past two years, Flint had also managed to develop an equally imposing carriage to go with his massive frame. And while Harry might have resented that bulk in his younger days, now he was just a touch envious. He himself barely clocked in at a miserable five-seven and he couldn't help thinking that Skeeter would've been a lot less keen to cross him if he'd looked like _that._

Flint didn't miss him looking, and grinned toothily. "Like what you see, Potter?"

He scowled. "I wasn't looking at you- at least not like _that."_

"Then like what?" Flint seemed genuinely curious.

He sighed. "If I was your size, and attending the Wizengamot hearing- or if I was just your size, period. I think I'd get away with a lot more things that way."

Flint stared at him unbelievingly. "Like you don't get away with enough already, with that name of yours."

Harry gave him a flat look. It was strange that he was being so ballsy, especially just considering who the hell he was talking to, but he figured that for every minute he kept Flint talking, it was another minute he wasn't using his wand- or fists- to smash his face in. This _was _Marcus Flint they were talking about, after all.

"You were a Slytherin. I'm sure you didn't forget just what you got away with under Snape," he retorted. "Besides, you think I like the shit I get in, that _takes _a name like mine to get out of?"

The other boy looked thoughtful. "I hadn't considered that," Flint conceded.

"Exactly," he retorted. "My name makes me more of a target than anything else, especially considering last year-"

He bit off his words, his brain and memories finally catching up with his mouth. This was _Marcus __Flint _he was talking to-!

The grin Flint was giving him wasn't reassuring in the least. "I'm not going to lie to you, Potter," he began, "and I'm certainly not going to sugarcoat it. There's no point in you telling me anything about last year, because I already know all about it."

Harry paled. "You were there?" he whispered, more shocked than scared.

Flint shrugged with a roll of those enormous shoulders. "No, I wasn't. My father was, though, and I was called soon after."

"You're one of them." Harry felt resigned instead of afraid. He'd faced Death Eaters before, even if it'd never been one he'd gone to school with. If he ever thought about it though, he would have imagined Malfoy in this place, not Flint.

"Aye, I'm for them," the older boy replied easily enough, so casually that Harry almost missed the step he took towards him.

He blinked in surprise. "Then-"

"What happened to you last year was- a bit of a mistake, born out of desperation. Things should have never gotten that out of hand, but the response to the ritual was…unexpected." Flint pulled a face. "The Dark Lord hadn't thought his reaction would be that strong, and he acknowledges Diggory's death as the waste it was. Last year was a hasty decision made out of impatience. But he knows better now that he's re-evaluated his priorities."

Harry frowned. If he didn't know better- what he'd just heard was sounding suspiciously like a- "Is this an- an apology?" he stuttered incredulously. "From _Voldemort?__" _His voice hitched up in hysteria at the very thought.

"No," Flint replied, "it's an apology from _me, _which is as close as you'll ever get."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded.

"Do you honestly think the Dark Lord would ever apologise to you?"

He scowled. Flint's tone certainly brought him crashing down to reality. "Well, excuse me for breathing," he said snidely.

Flint sighed. "Don't make this any harder than it has to be, Potter," he said. "It's not just apologising to you; the Dark Lord wouldn't apologise to anybody. He doesn't want to pick a fight with you, not anymore, but you're still the Light's icon no matter how much you'd wish it otherwise." Flint's pistachio eyes gleamed at the start he gave. "Yeah, we've noticed. You never asked for the lot you were saddled with. In fact, one might think you even resent it." He smirked. "We've been watching- that's more than the Light's ever done, eh? And with good reason, to- at least to them, that is."

Harry swallowed tightly. This conversation was getting into dangerous territory. He crossed his arms defensively. "What do you want, Flint?"

The Slytherin mimicked his position with the crossed arms, and a widened smirk, when all Harry did was scowl. "Do you really want to go back up there?" he asked.

"Of course not."

"Then come with me."

He barked out a harsh laugh. "If you think all Gryffindors are idiots, you're sorely mistaken, Flint."

"You said that, not me," the other fired back. "Come with me, Potter. Let me show you how things would have _really _been like."

He growled. "Why don't I just Avada Kedavra myself right here and save you the trouble?"

"That's not what we're all about, Potter. Don't you think we deserve a chance?"

"I think I had a pretty good look last year!" he snapped. "And the year before that, and before that- I think I've given you all the chances you needed. Or did you forget what happened at Godric's Hollow fourteen years ago that started this ruddy mess! All you ever did was try and murder innocent people!"

"They weren't all innocent, and you can't blame the circumstances on us alone," Flint snapped back. "You say the Light fear us, but it takes fear on both sides to perpetrate a cycle like this.

"Tell me, what happens when the Light wins?

"Isn't that obvious?" he retorted. "It's a little something called _peace_. That means no killing, no torturing, no murder or mayhem- don't know if you've heard or something like that-"

"Every time one of them laughs, one of us drops down dead."

He was struck dumb by the familiarity of phrase.

"It's stagnation, Potter. Complete and utter stagnation. To give in to them doesn't just mean we lose our dignity, we lose our way of life. And then we'll all die in the end."

Harry stared at Flint with bewilderment on his face. Then he said something he never thought he'd have to to Marcus Flint: "What? I'm afraid you'll have to dumb it down."

The older boy chuckled, but it wasn't a pleasant sound. He sounded tired and grating. "You can't live in the Light and expect to flourish. They're too bedamned lazy to bother with upholding our lore. All they want is to muddle through life with the Mudbloods and Muggles, ignoring our heritage, our traditions, set in place by Merlin, Morgana and the Four Founders- traditions that were established so that we'd survive. So that we wouldn't become one of _them_." Flint didn't bother hiding a sneer.

Despite himself, Harry was curious. "One of what?"

"A Muggle."

"A Muggle," he repeated flatly, one eyebrow cocked disbelievingly.

Flint cocked his right back, and he twitched under the heavy pistachio gaze.

"Imagine that magic was your entire life, and then one day, it was all gone. What could possibly be worse? You could even say that we're kinder to cull the Squibs before they begin to understand, but we've started placing them at willing Muggle families instead. The Light is _blind_- look at what they've fostered with Argus Filch."

Harry couldn't help but be swayed by that argument. No one in their right mind would ever argue for Filch. But to kill _children-_he couldn't help but be chilled by the similarities between that and a familiar little story. Before he could open his mouth, though, Marcus had begun to speak again.

"Ah-ah-ah, Potter- I know what you're thinking. The Dark Lord didn't come after you in that respect. And we _don't _make mistakes. There are surefire ways to identify a Squib. We bait them, yes, but any one of us can tell you the sentiment and tide towards them is changing; at least the younger ones will. And _we_ are the ones leading the new charge. It's far better for Squibs to leave our society than to suffer the indignity of never being able to use even the most commonplace magic. And who knows? In a generation or two they might produce a blooded witch or wizard that would be welcomed back into the fold."

He gave a start. Did that mean Hermione might have been descended from a Pureblood Squib at one point? If he chose to believe Flint, that meant there was no such thing as a true Muggleborn. But-

"Malfoy called Hermione a Mudblood," he spat the word. "Unless you're telling me _he's _not Dark-"

Flint immediately scoffed. "Malfoy is an ignorant ponce of a git. The only one with any sense at all in that family is the Lady Malfoy, and that is because she wedded into the Malfoys. It was arranged," he added in a deadpan, almost nudging a smile out of him. "She did her duty and bore the Malfoy Heir, but cannot be bothered with Draco, leaving his raising to Lucius. As I'm sure you've noticed that man would rather pamper his child than educate him."

He was almost envious of Draco for that. Almost. Flint seemed to sense again what he was thinking, because he said, "For all that the Light claim to want to promote magic, _nothing _they are doing is helping that, least of all the pathetic pandering they do to Muggles. We're going to die out because of their stupid decisions, and the Dark won't let that happen to their children. _We __protect __our __own._"

Harry was wavering, and he _hated _to think he was wavering. Flint's side, even if not Flint himself, had tried to kill him. On _multiple _occasions. Had killed people. People he'd known, even if he hadn't known well. Hell, his parents had died, Cedric had been murdered right before him, Sirius was still on the run, and Pettigrew lying snug under Voldemort's protection. There was nowhere to stop, either. But he couldn't help but wonder about what Flint had said at the very last, his well-played hook- he couldn't help but wonder what a life with people who genuinely cared would be like.

But as soon as thought it, he snapped his mind shut. He couldn't, not with a bleeding psychopath out for his blood. All of Flint's pretty words were meant for anyone else but him.

"Not going to happen, Flint," he started. "I'm not foolish enough to think-"

Flint raised his wand and he tensed. But all the older boy did was open his mouth to say, "I, Marcus Orion Flint, give you my oath as a wizard that upon my magic, you, Harry James Potter, will not be harmed on my watch this day."

Flint stared intensely at him, and there was something almost beseeching in his pistachio eyes. "Give me that much, at least," he pled quietly.

Perhaps it was the completely ridiculous and binding oath Flint just made. Or maybe it was the fact that Marcus _Flint _shared a middle name with his dogfather. Either way, he was left gaping at the older teen in shock. His jaw dropped, quite unattractively to be honest. But he thought Flint's declaration rather deserved it.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked in hushed tones. "What could possibly be worth it?"

Flint looked at his feet, the expression on his face almost mulish. "I could say a lot of things: the Dark Lord's regard, the Dark, my beliefs."

"Oh." Harry didn't quite know why, but he felt a little deflated at that.

"But that wouldn't be the truth."

"Oh?"

He hated that he was letting Flint play him like an instrument, but it had been so, _so _long since someone had connected with him like this- and he hated the implication that it was Marcus bloody Flint. He licked his chops, nervous.

"Then what is?"

"You. What would be worth it is you."

Harry was shaking. "You don't even know me."

Flint took another step closer. There were barely two feet separating them. "That doesn't mean I don't want to. And I think you might want to know me too. And all that comes with."

It was the last sentence that felt like a bucket of ice water crashing down on him.

"This is insane," he declared, backing away. "Voldemort's out for my blood- has been since I was born. You can't tell me that's all changed overnight and expect me to believe it!"

"I told you, things got a little out of hand last year, and- well, he hasn't been in his right mind of late. All of that's changed, Harry." It was a little eerie how earnest the older boy seemed. "We made a mistake that night, coming after you, and ever since- you've been their sacrifice, their rallying point, their focus. You put us in a bit of quandary that night, y'know." Flint gave a little quirk of the lips that seemed almost rueful.

"The last few years have been a madhouse for us, with the Dark Lord's revival. But you saw him yourself First-Year, and you knew he wasn't quite- quite right anymore. It's taken us this long to try and make things right, and it all got a little out of hand, and came to a head that night at the cemetery. That's all been settled now though, and this is our olive branch to you. There're a lot more of us than you think, and we aren't all quite the big bad wolf the Light has always made us out to be. I'd like to think we're pretty reasonable folk, the ones that matter, that is."

"But-"

"Ever thought about the ones, then, the ones that were always a little queer, a little odd?" Flint asked, leaning close. "The ones that tried too hard to be good at everything, that were always a little slow anyways, the ones that only ever wanted to prove themselves perfectly right."

A feeling of dread welled up in his stomach, and he couldn't help his expression from turning. No true Muggleborn, indeed.

"Ah," Flint hummed, leaning back. Harry inhaled sharply, taking in the older boy's woody lingering scent, but somehow the renewed distance between them was disappointing, somehow. "Got one already, I see."

"Is that such a bad thing?" Harry asked quietly. He was a still a little unnerved over the fact that he was having an intelligent, coherent, non-violent conversation with Marcus Flint.

The older boy was shaking his head. "No," he said unequivocally. "But it is when you're somewhere you don't belong. They're the ones that've been in denial of themselves for so long."

"I don't understand," he heard himself whisper. He was afraid if he said anymore he'd admit that he actually wanted to.

Thankfully Flint seemed to understand. "Let me show you," he repeated, holding his hand out. It was very large, with blunt-tipped fingers, and neatly clipped nails. Very slowly, he extended his in return, and, curiously enough, Flint brought it to his lips, dry skin just skimming the top of his knuckles.

It was more embarrassing than arousing for him, and his face flamed painfully. Flint pulled him close, tucking him in the arc where his shoulder met body. All at once he was swamped by Flint's pulsing heat, and his heady smell, and it was more than a little difficult to breathe. The intensity of the older boy's pistachio-coloured gaze was tripled at this proximity.

Flint's other hand slid up the small of his back, to his shoulder, his neck, then the side of his face. Harry shuddered when the other boy's thumb, still calloused, swept against hie cheekbone.

"I'd quite like to keep you, if you'd let me," Flint murmured.

Harry felt a jerk near his navel not unlike a portkey, but lower in his belly. It left him hard up for breath.

They both started at the sound of voices drifting down their corridor. About bloody time, he thought bitterly. After this whole time, and no one had come looking for him once? For all the concern Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix seemed to insist, they seemed awfully lax at times. Flint drew him closer, and he was effectively distracted.

"There is a place that we go," the older boy continued, quiet and intimate as he manoeuvred them about with a small shuffle and step. "A safehouse, where no one is touched. Or rather, where no one is harmed." A rather devious smile crossed Flint's lips, causing him to gulp at the expression. The older boy tightened his hold on him.

"To Middleton, then. Don't let go," he warned, before they were in the grip of Apparition, and zipping miles away from the Ministry.

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><p>Finally, finally, I've started posting. This sodding thing has been a whole year in the works and it's finally done (o: I'll start up a posting schedule once a week, on either Monday or Tuesday, but I'll have chapter two out this time before the weekend's out (o; You lot deserve a little extra for hanging in there so long. Once again, thanks v much! And do review. Cheers.<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

**Anybody's Hero**

Rating: M

Summary: At the Wizengamot, Harry finds himself having a battle of wits with a very different opponent instead: Marcus Flint. Warnings for slash. Marcus/Harry.

For my 300th reviewer from **To****Bedlam****and****Partway****Back** , Lone-Angel-1992. I'm so sorry it took a whole bleeding year. But thanks ever so much for believing I'd come out with it in the end (o:

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, nor the lyrics of the Morrissey song the title comes from.

I changed the title. It's been bothering me that it wasn't quite accurate; ideally I'd like to field the entire line in, but…maybe once it's all done. Cheers, and enjoy.

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><p><span>Chapter Two<span>

"Bloody hell!" Harry exclaimed, stumbling away from Flint, or more like shoving him away. The older boy had gotten rather…handsy, during their journey. It made the odd ends of him tingle, and he wasn't quite sure it was pleasant. Still, air came to him a little easier, now. It seemed Flint's little mesmerising act worked better with touch, and he was a little leery of giving the other boy such a huge advantage over him. "A little warning next time, if you don't mind," he snapped, whipping about to glare at the older boy.

"But what if I do?"

Harry blinked. "What?"

Flint tried for innocence, and failed terribly. His smile was bordering on sleazy. "What if I do mind?"

He rolled his eyes. "What am I going to do? The big bad evil Death Eater's kidnapped me and is forcing me against my will. Oh, help me, help me, someone, please."

Flint actually chuckled at that, and raised his hand to the sharp bone of his hip to urge him on. Harry, still alert, shied away from his touch and the older boy backed obediently off, hands raised. "Interesting choice of words there, Potter," he said, although he didn't state just which phrase it was that had caught his ear. "And I'm not, by the way."

"Forcing me against my will?" Harry asked. "Well, I suppose not," he grudgingly admitted as he began walking forward.

"Well, not that either," Flint conceded, guiding him through the throngs of people. Harry'd always known size was a factor when cutting through a crowd like a knife, beginning with Hagrid and his first trip to Diagon, but Flint brought it to a whole other level. It wasn't just his size that had people keeping a clear berth from there, but also the air he exuded seemingly out of his pores. It was pure confidence and power, sheer animalistic strength. It was almost instinctive to avoid it. Harry shuddered, and Flint took the opportunity to sneak a soothing hand up and down the small of his back, shooting the most bizarre tingles down his spine at the contact.

"I meant that I'm not a Death Eater. Won't say no to 'big' and 'bad' though," Flint added cheerfully.

Harry stopped straight in his tracks and stared up at Flint. The older boy stopped as well, forcing the people about them to move around them. Several threw them dirty looks, but Harry didn't care about them, and Flint just didn't care, period.

"What do you mean, you're not a Death Eater?" he asked, astonished. "You just said you were one, just now!"

"I never said I was one. You can check me all over; I'm not wearing any marks," Flint replied, calmly. "You said that I was one of them, and I responded with these words exactly: 'Aye, I'm for them'. Not that I'm a part of them."

"You said 'aye'," Harry accused sullenly, unsure if he was grumpy because Flint wasn't a Death Eater, or if he'd assumed too much earlier. "And 'aye' means yes."

Flint cocked his head aside and shrugged. "Well, maybe," he conceded, hand pressing into the small of Harry's back to initiate their moving again. Flint's hand remained where it lay, a warm and oddly weighty anchor against the whirlpool in his mind.

He just sighed and glanced around him. "Where are we, anyways? I'd've thought you would've Silenced me for blurting it out loud like that. This can't be the sort of place where just anyone would openly talk about Voldemort and Death Eaters; I don't know anywhere that is.."

"And yet here we are," Flint mused, "doing exactly that. We're not in Diagon Alley, if that's what you're asking. Dreadful, nasty commonplace hovel, besides. No, this is the Rue Morgue."

He blanched. "I beg your pardon?"

Flint smirked at his response. "The Rue Morgue," he repeated carelessly. _"Morgue _is French for 'haughtiness', 'lordliness'."

Slowly, Harry took in just what kinds of people were swarming around them. "How could I have missed that," he griped.

He stuck out like a sore thumb, in a cambric work shirt that Dudley had once deemed fashionable and overlarge cargo pants. All around him swirled silks and high-count cottons, flowed chiffon and charmeuse, swayed thick wools and tweeds, and the people about him were gay and laughing. He started off a little annoyed with their flippant attitude, given the recent events, but…no, that wouldn't have been possible. He and Flint had spoken openly about the Dark Lord earlier, brazenly, even, and such a thing would never have gone unnoticed on an ordinary street.

It wasn't that they didn't care, he realised. It was because they were genuinely glad of Voldemort's return. They were even _comforted _by it. It was what lent them the strength to wander the streets, meandering and gallivanting and indulging in all types of merrymaking. The spark in their eyes was hope, however evanescent it was. However evanescent it might be.

"What is this place?" he asked again, somewhat awed and cowed. He didn't even bat off Flint's arm about his waist, tugging him possessively closer. Right now, when he was this uncertain, the warmth and solidity of the other boy's body was almost comforting. "Rue Morgue."

"It's where we come to celebrate," Flint replied cryptically. "It's where we come to dance."

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><p>Their first stop was to a shop so quiet and discrete, he would have walked right on past the same way Muggles would have walked right past the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron if Flint hadn't snagged his elbow. There was a quick discussion between Flint and the proprietor, who was a tall lanky sort barely able to keep his head from clipping the roof beams in his store. The shopkeeper kept throwing him measuring looks over Flint's shoulder, brow furrowed as he shifted nervously from foot to foot. Harry scowled right on back, a little annoyed by how out-of-the-loop he was on things.<p>

"All right," the proprietor said at last. "Think I've got it."

"Brilliant," Flint said in turn. "I'd probably need to get you to deliver the rest of it by owl to him. But since we're dining at Ancelot right now-"

"Yes, yes, of course," the man murmured, turning about and brandishing his wand. He conjured up some garments, before shoving them unceremoniously into Harry's arms. "There you go," he said. "Go ahead then, change. This ought to be a good gauge. I'll make any minor adjustments from what I see with this."

Harry gripped the clothes, wrinkling the fine fabric as they all just stood there in a tight triangle, staring blankly at each other.

"I'm sorry," he said, "but just what's going on?"

"Go on then, Potter," Marcus urged, "get changed. We're to lunch first, and then I'll take you to Middleton."

He couldn't deny that almost anything would fit in better in this Rue Morgue than the Muggle clothes he was wearing now, but it still came as a bit of a shock. "What?" he squeaked. "Right now- as in right here?"

"Well, yes," the proprietor said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Where else? I expect you could go out in the street, to be a good sport and all, but you're obviously new here. I wouldn't think you'd be that open so quickly."

"So you're expecting me to doff my drawers in a place that's smaller than my old cupbo- I mean, er- my old room," he stammered, mentally cursing at the slip. "Or any room. Dressing room. That's the ticket."

Flint's eyes narrowed at his slip, but was successfully distracted by the latter unfamiliar term. "A self-dressing room?"

"A room that Muggles use to try clothes on, Marcus," the proprietor explained patiently. "It's very small and cramped. Strange thing, those Muggles."

Flint's eyes narrowed even further. "Exactly like your cu-"

"I'm not going to doff my clothes in front of a couple of blokes I barely know," he declared loudly over Flint's words.

"I'm just about asexual," the proprietor assured him, "so you needn't worry on my account. Marcus- well, he's really just all sexual, but he's looking after you now. That means he won't let any harm come to you, not even from himself."

"Gee, why don't I feel comforted by that?" he drawled, flushing. Despite his words, strangely enough he did feel comforted, remembering the vow Marcus had made to him in the Ministry. Turning resolutely around, he shucked his clothes as quick as he was able to, and threw the clothes on haphazardly. When he turned about, he found the two with strangely wooden faces looking back at him.

"What is it?" he asked, beginning to frown.

Flint looked like he wanted to bite off a curse, but it was the proprietor who spoke. "You- it's just a feeling on my part, I think, but you don't look in the mirror very often, do you?"

Harry frowned for real this time. "No, no I don't. I mean, I check to see that my hair's not gone mad on me, or that I don't have bits stuck in my teeth, but not much more than that."

"I see," the man said neutrally, and then began to straighten out his outfit as if the past half-minute had never happened, successfully distracting Harry from his thoughts. He hadn't noticed the clothes as he'd put them on, and it was only now that he realised he'd just donned a rather neat pair of robes in deep navy, with matching trousers beneath. The crisp shirt beneath was dark aubergine, and a pair of black dragonhide boots were produced. The last thing the proprietor added was a white napkin in his breast pocket, 'as an accent', or so he'd claimed.

"Well I say," the proprietor murmured. "You clean up rather well. Pity I can't do a thing about your hair, but you don't quite look half-arsed anymore."

Harry smiled wryly. He rather liked this strange proprietor, whom Flint was friends with. He was thin as a beanpole with near colourless eyes, raucous curls and dimples in his pale cheeks.

"Here, let me," Flint said, reaching forward to hold Harry's chin carefully in place. He tensed as he found a wand pointed at his face, but Flint was aiming at his glasses, and a nifty transfiguration later, he was outfitted with a pair of rather stylish eyepieces rather than Spell-o-taped bits of broken glass.

"Good," the proprietor declared. "You're all set for luncheon." The man winked slyly at the disbelieving look on Harry's face. "You don't do things halfway if you're Dark." He gaped. It was the first time he'd ever heard of someone referring to himself so openly and off-handedly as such. Flint, the crafty bugger, didn't count. "Marlowe Hobbes, if you ever need my services again. I trust I'll be seeing you afterward."

He bowed them out from his shop, nearly braining himself against the door handle, the space was so small. With a touch of difficulty and a lot of magic, they managed to squeeze about each other and manoeuvre back out onto the street.

"Is he always this odd?" Harry found himself asking. He found himself dazzled anew by the sights, the sounds, the smells. With just a different set of clothes he found himself already more attuned to Rue Morgue.

Flint laughed. "Hobbes said it just now. When you're Dark- we don't do things half-arsed, Potter." He glanced backward with an amused smile, clearly jibing him. Harry huffed, and barely noticed it when the other boy stopped him in front of another establishment, a little bistro-type café with al fresco seating. "Here we are, then, for lunch- Ancelot."

Harry openly stared about him as they were seated. Around them, people ate their luncheon, conducted their business, or just caught up with old acquaintances. They seemed no different from the persons at Diagon Alley, but he noticed a sort of muted quality about their exchanges. Their feelings, while no less undimmed, weren't violently abrasive and overbearing. It made the ambience calmer and more intimate.

"Do you come here often?" he asked, sitting absently when Flint pulled out his chair for him.

Flint smiled. "As much as I can," he confessed. "I've got a bit of sweet tooth, and this is an excellent place to indulge."

It was the least serious thing he'd heard from Flint all day, and he couldn't help but laugh. Flint continued to smile at him, and it struck him that this moment seemed almost natural between them.

"What would you like?" the older boy asked, gesturing at the menus on the table between them. "If you're feeling adventurous, you could always let them surprise you." He indicated the server that stood unobtrusively at his elbow, and the man stepped forward. "Although I would recommend the steak."

Harry swallowed his nervousness. "Sure, why not?" he agreed, offering the server his menus. The man took them, bowed briefly to them both, and left. "Adventurous wasn't the word I would've used. I wouldn't have known what to order," he confessed after the man was out of earshot, his head still turned to watch the server leave.

"I thought it'd be something like that," Flint said thinly. He frowned at the older boy, not understanding, but Flint didn't elaborate.

"Tell me, then," he said instead. "What does it mean to _you _to be free?"

Flint took up the subject change easily enough. "The same as it does to you, I suspect," he said, shrugging. "To be uncontrolled, unfettered. All I ever said was that the Dark and Light had to coexist. I said nothing about them having to interact. We would prefer it that way, and besides, they want nothing to do with us."

"You _do _have a tendency to hide yourselves away," Harry conceded, planting both elbows on the table and seating his chin on his hands. He saw Flint wince at his abysmal table manners and grinned. The other boy just rolled his eyes at him.

"All the better to surprise you with," he drawled. "There is no Light without Dark, and no Dark without Light. Now you tell me, have you heard any of your Lightsiders say anything like that?"

He frowned. "No," he admitted, "it was always a them-or-us type situation. It was more like one side couldn't live without the other. But you're not fooling anyone if you say anything different," he said hotly. "It's all on record, what you'll did in the last war. You can't tell me you'll were all for letting the Light live, either!"

Flint made a displeased face, but to his surprise, didn't disagree.

"Some of the old faithful may have been a little…overzealous," he conceded, pointedly ignoring Harry's snort and muttered, "I'll say!" "But our priorities have changed, now," Flint continued. "No more hiding. We won't do that to our own. That's more than the Light can say, isn't it?" he challenged.

"What d'you mean by that?" Harry demanded, but their server had returned, bearing their appetisers on twin plates. He had the duck confit with marmalade sauce on spinach leaves, while Flint got foie gras casserole. He felt his was a little extravagant as compared to the other's, but when Flint all but shoved a forkful down his throat- he couldn't help but moan in sheer bliss.

"You can't tell me that's not Dark Arts," he moaned. "That tastes so much better than it should. I've never had anything this good."

Flint smirked. "You'd never find food this good anywhere in the Light world," he acknowledged, "but it's not because of Dark Arts. Here at Ancelot- here at the Rue Morgue- all of the preparations are undertaken by hand. These meals are all a labour of love. Magic is innate in the process, not just the outcome."

"Food can't be conjured," he reasoned slowly.

"No," Flint agreed, talking past another mouthful, "but it can be assembled with the correct swish and flick. That's how Lightsiders make their food, to save time, to avoid the mess, whatever bloody excuses they give, and that's why it tastes so different. No amount of swishing and flicking can mimic the taste of food made with hands leaking magic out of their fingertips."

He chewed thoughtfully. "That sounds right gross when you put it like that," he said after he'd swallowed. "And actually, that sounds like something a Muggle would say. After all, they _have _to prepare their food with their hands, most of the time."

Flint pursed his lips at the comparison, but again stumped him with his lack of protest. "They're not wrong about that, I told you the Lightsiders are right lazy sods," he said. "They use magic for absolutely everything, forgetting that there are certain rituals that need an actual form, not an imitation of one. Magic can only mimic a person's presence, not make up for one."

He squinted. "You know about the graveyard," he reasoned. "Then you must know the ritual Voldemort did to revive himself. He came back, as a person. Sort of."

The other boy rolled his eyes. "You can't imagine the Dark Lord came out of his mother's womb looking like that, did you?" Flint asked rhetorically, and then shot him a stern glare as he opened his mouth to retort. "But yes, you're right. There was no way anyone could have swish-and-flicked the Dark Lord's body into existence, so they had to conduct a ritual. The labour of it is just as important as the magic."

"Okay," Harry said, "all right. I think I get that much. The Dark involves action as much as it does magic? And the Light tend to resort only to magical means."

"You think it's the Dark lording our magic over the Muggles?" Flint sneered. "It's the Light, not us. We've always had to be cautious of the unfamiliar, and we've watched the Muggles all these years. They deserve much more credit than the Light will allot them. We might not embrace the Muggles, but we are not the ones who desire to bury their heads in the sand and cry 'ignorance'. Because of them the stagnation's already begun. We can feel it in our bones, even you must. Our world is still wonderful, yes, but it is no longer truly magical. It will take eroding the Light's influence in our very culture for that to return."

Their conversation had taken a rather serious turn, Harry mused, as he chomped through another mouthful of duck. He didn't quite know what to make of it all, what he was being told. Of course, he was extremely aware that this was only a telling. He only had Flint's word that the Dark was anything like he said it was, although the Rue Morgue was absolutely marvellous. He couldn't take anything for certain until he saw Flint's words in action for himself.

And then what? he wondered. Where did that leave him? He had no idea. He still wasn't quite sure why Flint had approached him in the first place. If Flint was trying to get him to switch sides- he paused, mouth still open and his hand hefting a spoon en route. _If __Flint __was __trying __to __get __him __to __switch __sides. _Harry didn't feel very hungry anymore, and put his spoon down. He didn't notice the concern causing Flint's eyes to bore into his face.

"Is this what it's all about?" he asked, still not looking up.

"What _what's _all about?" the other boy asked, cautiously.

He jerked his head up and glared. "Playing the fool doesn't suit you, Flint," he hissed. He could see the older boy startled by his sudden animosity and thought that was well and good for him to feel off-kilter once. It was only how _he'd _been feeling all ruddy day!

"You don't have to tell me your sob stories anymore," he said. The disappointment didn't settle very well atop the duck, although he didn't like thinking he could ever have been disappointed with Marcus Flint of all people. To be disappointed would have meant he'd have had expectations of the other boy, and Merlin forbid that ever happen. He was only beginning to understand now how truly dangerous that was. "As intriguing as all of this has been," he said coolly, "I do believe I'd like to go back now."

Flint was staring at him as if this was the first time he'd seen Harry all day. "What brought this on, Harry?" he asked quietly. "You said you'd give me the whole day to-"

"_I _never said a thing about taking up the whole day. _You _were the one who swore your damn oath," he snapped. "Besides, if it's not Dumbledore wanting to use me, then it's you lot. Now tell me, how the hell is one side any better than the bloody other?"

Flint looked shocked. "You knew, then," he said. "You knew, that Dumbledore-"

He gave a hysterical laugh. "Not going to deny your part in it, then?" he asked archly. All at once he caved.

"No," he whispered, "I didn't. Didn't think of it at all, was so blind all this time-." He made a pained sound and slumped back in his seat. "It was just- when I thought things through- I was thinking, you see-" He looked up at Flint desperately then. "I was trying to understand why today had come about at all, what you gained by intervening with the _Wizengamot, _of all things. I wouldn't have thought of it at all if you hadn't shed such light on things. What you had to gain was just as much what Dumbledore had to lose.

"Me. I won't fool myself into thinking I'm actually worth anything, but Merlin knows that sodding title-" He bit off his words with a grimace, before soldering his eyes at Flint. "Now, are you going to sit there and tell me I'm wrong?"

"It was always ever about you, Harry," the other boy said carefully.

He tossed his spoon with its remaining mouthful of duck on the table. Around them, a few heads turned at the clatter of silverware. "I knew it," he muttered bitterly.

He wasn't expecting Flint to lunge forward and snatch for his recently-emptied hand. Harry jerked his head up and stared at the other boy in astonishment. Under his gaze Flint licked his lips, visibly nervous. He didn't understand. What possibly could Flint have to lose?

"You weren't wrong," Flint began, "when you spoke of who had to gain what.

"It's not the Dark that gains you, Harry.

"It's _me."_

"I beg your pardon?" he wheezed. Underneath Flint's hand, his fingers twitched involuntarily. The older boy merely tightened his grip.

"What I intended to gain by telling you about the Dark was your understanding, Harry, perhaps your sympathy, but not your service and not your allegiance." Flint's pistachio eyes were serious as he stared unwaveringly at him. Harry didn't think he'd ever been this surprised in his life. "If you're not Dark, then you're not Dark. I'm hoping for a Neutral, at least, but if you're Light-" he shrugged. "Then it can't be helped, although I sincerely doubt it. Your magical alignment has nothing to do with your stance on magic. Although it is rare for a Lightsider to be standing with the Dark and vice versa," he conceded. "It's as bad as denying the very nature of magic."

"I-I had this ridiculous crush on Cho last year," he finally stammered, and then wanted to smack himself on the mouth. Of all the foolish, inane things to say-!

Flint rolled his eyes again. "Puppy love," he dismissed. "I think I can overlook that much. Harry, I'm in this for _keeps."_

He gaped. "But how- you don't even _know _me," he protested, albeit weakly.

"I want the chance to," Flint quietly replied, squeezing his near-forgotten hand once, before letting go.

Harry flexed his fingers, and they felt strangely alone all there by themselves.

"I was the one who spoke to my Lord and asked for this intervention," Flint confessed. "I argued for the opportunity to speak with you, to show you our world, before stepping back and letting you make your choice on your terms."

"And- and you think I'm going to believe- that- that _Voldemort _just listened to you prattle on, and not only that, agreed to the whole bloody arrangement?" he asked incredulously.

"Well he did," Flint said plainly.

He didn't bother holding back his snort. "I'll believe it when I see it."

Surprisingly, Flint just smiled. "I'll hold you to that, Harry."

There was something in Flint's eyes that had him glancing down to his plate, cheeks burning. The server had delivered their mains unobtrusively and cleaned up the mess he'd made with his spoon. Harry busied himself with cutting up and devouring his steak, all the while ignoring the flaming hippogriff roosting between them during luncheon. The food was excellent, but Harry barely tasted it as mouthful after mouthful slid down his throat nearly automatically.

"What do you know then," he said at last, when their plates had been cleared and their server had discretely set their placings for dessert, "about Dumbledore and his plans?"

"That they have never once benefitted you," Flint replied immediately. "I hate to say it but even Black or Lupin would have been preferable to you having been left with Muggles. At least then you wouldn't have-"

"Wouldn't have been the ignorant twerp I am?" he finished nastily.

Flint was watching him intently. "You really don't know, do you," he murmured, but it wasn't exactly a question. "Earlier, when Hobbes asked about the mirrors- you really don't look into them. And how about when you wash-"

"Will you just come right out and say it?" he snapped.

"Your entire back is covered in scars," Flint said, face carefully blank. "And these are not scars children receive from being children."

Harry froze, and then smiled very stiffly. "I don't know what you mean," he said, "I'm afraid your definition of what being a child entails some rather glaring differences."

"Dumbledore let that happen," Flint said.

"The wards-"

"-are useless now that my Lord has your blood in his veins. And my Lord has found them always useless after having studied them. Your Order of the Phoenix said they had guards watching your Muggle house?" Flint snorted his derision. "My Lord was there just this past week and none of them saw him."

"Voldemort…was at Privet Drive?" he repeated weakly. There were a lot of impossible things going on with this conversation, and he didn't know which one of them to start off with first.

"Those wards Dumbledore claimed for your _protection," _the older boy sneered, "while based on the fact that you and your aunt shared the same blood of Lily Potter's running through both your veins, was drawn from _your _magic, and depended on not your mother'saffections at the time of her death, but your aunt's." The bottom of his stomach dropped out. "And you expect me to believe she held any affection for you at all?" Flint demanded. "Given those marks on your back?"

"I-I-" Harry stammered, unable to form a proper thought. He swallowed tightly a few times, before managing, "I-I knew that Dumbledore- he. I-I knew. That he was testing me. Every year, making me jump through all those bloody hoops. Bu-but I don't-"

"It would make sense if the old bastard were figuring out how much power it took to defeat a Dark Lord. This is how Dumbledore's been using you," Flint said bluntly.

"What?" he exclaimed, just as two glasses of vanilla ice were set before them both.

"You're an experiment, a mere factor in his equation. Blood," Flint said suddenly, "is one of the most magically potent substances in the world. With a drop of one's blood you can work both wonders and horrors. And now that my Lord has _your _blood- well, I expect he knows things about you that you couldn't even fathom.

"Did you know that your magical core's been blocked? Nearly completely dammed up so that only a trickle comes through. Part of it is siphoned off to power those bloody wards, I suspect, but there are still traces of it having been stoppered even more severely in the past- our guess is that with every passing year, every passing- _hoops, _as you call them, the bastard undoes a little more on his block." Flint sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. "Come and be honest with yourself, Harry," he said. "You're up against the most powerful Dark Lord that the world has ever seen, and you're barely half-trained, yet you've managed every time to either come out not losing, if on top.

"If you can hold the Dark Lord at an impasse on just a fraction of your power, can you imagine what you'll be like with all of your reserves open to you? To borrow a mathematical term, you're the unknown variant in this formula, Harry. Absolutely no one knows just how much you're capable of. So that makes you the best crash dummy. They can run test after test after test on you and _know _you'll never break. And that's what they've been doing to you year after year."

"They wouldn't do that," he protested weakly.

"They would," Flint overrode him. "I told you, the Light are all lazy fucking sods. All this whole conflict is to them is a bloody equation, Harry, and you are the least of their concerns, especially when leaving you in your current quandary is going to help them solve it. I mean, after they work it out, using you, by the way, they won't even have to think about how to defeat us anymore."

"If- that's why," he realised. "All those years ago- this is why he came looking for us. For my parents and me."

Flint gave a rumble of dissent. "Not exactly. There was a prophecy, and back then we didn't realise that prophecies were self-fulfilling. They're a ruddy lot of codswallop, to be honest, but like I said, the old faithful were a little too enthusiastic." He made a face. "Odds are, Harry, you would never have been this powerful had the Dark Lord not attacked you that night. If he hadn't marked you, passed some of his powers _to _you, we've theorised that probably allowed you to tap into the whole of your core. That helped you survive, not only counteracting the killing curse but nearly destroying the Dark Lord as well. Children don't have full access to their cores, you see, let alone babies," Flint explained. "You've got to reach your age of majority, and then some for you to grow into your magic. For something like this to happen to you at the age of one- you would have either died or gotten that much stronger. Fortunately the latter occurred, but almost immediately after you had those blocks placed on your core so you've never been allowed to grow into it."

It was all a little hard to swallow, to be honest. "Then- then what about my mother's sacrifice?" he asked. "Everyone always says-"

"That's as much codswallop as that ruddy prophecy," Flint growled. "Magic is all about will and intent. A corpse can't affect magic in the slightest, not even through its lingering sentiments."

It was a lot to take in, and Harry sought refuge in his glass of vanilla ice. Flint took his cues from him and reached for his own glass. For a few minutes they sat in silence, each eating their dessert, although the pleasure had been rather drained from the experience.

He sort of understood it now that Flint wouldn't lie to him, would swear an unbreakable oath if he so wished it. There had just been so much information, though, and so much he'd never noticed, never seen. And no matter what Flint had said, no matter how much sense he'd made, Harry was still a little leery at accepting it all based on the older boy's word alone. There was still some nugget of self-preservation in him that was screaming for him to walk away. That was probably the smartest decision right now, but he wasn't quite sure if it was the _wisest._

"It's all a bit much to swallow one on top of another, isn't it?" Flint asked kindly, and he shot the older boy a guilty glance over their table. Flint chuckled quietly as he licked sticky vanilla-flavoured trails off his dessert spoon, the least decorous Harry'd seen him all day. His eyes lingered on the cold-pinked tongue curled around burnished silver, and he had to force himself to look away. It didn't stop his cheeks from burning, though. Flint said nothing, just stared right at him. He swallowed thickly, guiltily glancing back as Flint gave the spoon one slow, last lick. He could've sworn he'd heard the _'shing!' _of that slick muscle against the silver. He had to tear his mind away, to more...mundane matters.

"It is," he agreed slowly, "and a lot of it is because what you've said doesn't match what I've seen or heard. I don't remember this you at all from Hogwarts. I don't remember seeing any of it."

He bit his lip at the last, unsure of what would come next after that little confession.

But all Flint did was smile grimly as if he weren't terribly surprised by his words. And, Harry supposed, he couldn't have been.

"It's not the sort of thing we could risk," Flint explained. "The ones of us that are Dark- sure, you'd expect most of Slytherin right off the bat, but I'm telling you now it isn't always the case. Genetics has nothing to do with your magical alignment." His face darkened. "Families have been torn apart for less, anyways."

That was another hook, that sunk under his skin like a prickling barb. Judging by the softening look on Flint's face, the older boy knew it too.

"Damnit," he growled, and Flint laughed, lightly.

"I think I've talked more than my fair share," he murmured. He put his spoon to the side of his glass, signalling that he was done. Harry followed suit, if rather less elegantly. "I think it's time you heard what other people had to say. This conflict is far more personal than most people like to admit."

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><p>And that's a wrap for chapter two. There was a tonne of information that I threw in there, which makes for a tonne of future precedence. We'll get to it all, eventually, so patience please (o: Reviews are cosmic love. Cheers.<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

**Anybody's Hero**

Rating: M

Summary: At the Wizengamot, Harry finds himself having a battle of wits with a very different opponent instead: Marcus Flint. Warnings for slash. Marcus/Harry.

For my 300th reviewer from **To****Bedlam****and****Partway****Back** , Lone-Angel-1992. I'm so sorry it took a whole bleeding year. But thanks ever so much for believing I'd come out with it in the end (o:

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, nor the lyrics of the Morrissey song the title comes from.

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><p><span>Chapter Three<span>

"We're always arguing about how much our alignment is a nature-nurture process," Flint began as they left Ancelot and proceeded down Rue Morgue again.

"Isn't that a Muggle psychology thing?" Harry asked, trotting alongside Flint to keep pace with him. The older boy shot him an amused look but obligingly shortened his strides. If that weren't enough, he nipped Harry's hand where it swung loose by his side. Harry felt his face heat up again, but didn't pull away.

"I told you, we're always ones to give credit where credit's due," Flint continued, as if he hadn't just interlaced their fingers in a blatantly intimate gesture. "Besides, it's a valid argument. Although one's alignment has more to do with nature and one's stance nurture. For the twain to be in opposition to each other is rare because the discord tends to kill," he finished dryly.

Harry nodded slowly. "From all you've said so far...I get that."

Flint smiled, fleetingly. "Earlier I said I'd take you to a safehouse, Middleton. It's a bit of a homey place and it's where us children go to just lounge about and have a good time. I think you'd recognise a goodly few of them."

Those words prepared him somewhat for the sight that awaited them as they entered an enormous mansion just off the main street, but Harry still couldn't believe his eyes once they'd walked in proper. Sure, Flint had mentioned the possibility of his knowing a _few_ of the Dark children, but what Flint hadn't mentioned was just how many there were. Their identities, too, were another surprise.

Sure enough, there were a few Slytherins around, but they were all scattered about with some very conspicuous absences: Parkinson wasn't there, and neither were Malfoy's two lackeys. The Second-Year Ravenclaw Stewart Ackerly was warmly ensconced in said blond's lap, chatting the ear off fellow housemate Luna Lovegood while the Slytherin boy watched him with an indulgent gaze. Marcus Belby was off in a corner making cow-eyes at Katie Bell, and- he blinked. Cho Chang was sitting by the fire with Marietta Edgecombe, talking and laughing over something, but snogging more than anything else. He flushed and looked away. Flint caught sight of him and chuckled, nudging him gently.

"You see what I meant about puppy love?" he asked.

Harry flushed even harder.

Penelope Clearwater and Justin Finch-Fletchley were having a rather lively debate off to the far side, being watched by a sleepy-looking Blaise Zabini draped across the laps of the two Hufflepuff Beaters, Anthony Rickett and Maxine O'Flaherty. On the other side of them sat Theodore Nott and Parvati Patil. Perhaps the most surprising of them wall was Neville Longbottom, sitting on a sofa set along with Cormac McLaggen, Anthony Goldstein, Daphne and Astoria Greengrass, and Tamsin Applebee, looking more at home here than he'd ever had in Gryffindor.

He couldn't help but gape.

"This isn't all of us," Flint remarked quietly, tugging him along by their linked arms and touring him about the room. Teenagers glanced up as they walked past, but none of them seemed the slightest bit concerned about seeing him there in the company of Marcus Flint.

"When you said," he began hesitantly, "that you're going to let me decide on my own terms- you mean you're just going to let me waltz away, with all these names and faces in my head?"

"I was never worried you'd sell us out, if that's what you're on about," Flint said. "I think you're more worried for us than we ourselves are, and if that isn't telling I don't know what is."

"I can't lie to save my life," he said angrily. "How am I supposed to go back to Hogwarts and not react to all this?"

"I've got faith in you," Flint replied jauntily, tapping him once on the tip of his nose. Harry jerked away, but Flint held on fast to his hand and dragged him over to where Neville was just looking up. Harry found himself pressed onto the sofa beside his housemate. "Stay here for a minute, all right?" Flint murmured in his ear. Harry shuddered at the older boy's lips pressed against his skin in a mockery of a kiss. "I've got to take care of a couple of things upstairs, and I'm sure you have plenty to talk about. I'll be back in a little while."

Flint really did kiss him then, just a small fleeting one pressed into the skin of his neck, but the imprint of his lips burned long after their owner had left.

"Harry."

He glanced up into the concerned eyes of his dorm mate. "Harry," Neville said again, "are you all right? Marcus- well, he means well, but he isn't known for being very kind. He can be quite abrasive and determined when he wants something."

Harry slowly shook his head. "He's been nothing but polite," he said, astonishing even himself with the truth.

Neville smiled, briefly, and Harry saw him look discretely at the other persons seated on the couch set. One by one they made themselves scarce, and Harry reminded himself to thank them at another time, when he wasn't feeling quite so lost.

"Here, then," Neville said, "why don't you tell me about how this got started."

"I was at the Wizengamot this morning, and Flint just- _showed __up-"_ He gave a bit of a crazed laugh and ran a hand through his messy hair. "How could anyone have hidden this for so long?" he asked. "I mean- everything Flint's told me about the Dark- bout _you-_Merlin, Neville, how'd _that_ even happen?"

"I've always known I was different from the rest of my family," Neville said matter-of-factly. Gran gave me my father's wand to use, but it doesn't- _won't-_work for me. And in Hogwarts you know they teach primarily Light magic. All my life I've had people try to get me to perform the same type of magic, using a Light-inclined wand- well, you don't get results, that's for sure." Neville said it in such a self-deprecating manner that Harry couldn't help but laugh.

"It was only by chance in Second Year, a couple of weeks after Lockhart let out those ruddy pixies- do you remember? I happened across one of the Darker spells in the library and tried it, and I swear everything was clearer for _days-"_

"Oh, Merlin," he whispered in awe. "Yeah, I remember that now. I mean, not your wandwork-" Neville made an appropriate face at that, "-but you were a lot calmer and your written work came out better, too. Even Hermione wondered-" He stopped, wondering what to say about his suspicions. "Neville, Flint said that- he said that the ones in denial were usually the ones that were- a little odd. They were the ones that tried too hard to prove that they belonged in a place that they didn't, that they were right."

Neville's pale blue eyes went round with shock. "Oh," he said. "And so you immediately thought of...Hermione?"

He flushed, but Neville just smiled and shook his head. "It isn't as common for Muggleborns or even Halfbloods to be Dark as it is for Purebloods. Or maybe they're so, and they just don't realise it. They aren't as in tune with their magic as we are, not really, and if they live in Muggle cities or Muggle towns they don't get half the time to just practice and get a feel for their magic like we do. Eventually they spend half their lives fighting their alignment, not understanding that to do so is pretty much tantamount betrayal to magic itself. Many Muggleborns and Halfbloods are inundated into the Light's side of thinking, that Light equals good and Dark equals bad, and in an environment like Hogwarts, under the Headmaster, they never learn to think otherwise." He at least sounded a little sad over it, never mind that Harry himself was a Halfblood, and he'd counted a few Muggleborns and the like in the room.

"Once in a while, though, there are some who _get it_, like Justin and the lot." He nodded in the direction of their sulking Hufflepuff yearmate, who'd apparently lost his argument with Penelope Clearwater and crawled over to Zabini and his fellow housemates for comfort, to a few of their mates' good-natured jeers.

"But I get why you'd have thought it," Neville continued, "especially given how Marcus had phrased it. But no, she isn't. There was a time when I thought that she might've been too, y'know, given what she's like. But Hermione- no, she isn't anything more than Hermione. As afraid as she is of not fitting in, she's much more afraid of being Dark and its connotations. Good to her equals Light and right and it'll break her mind to think of the world in any other way.

"For Parvati, however- now that's an entirely different story."

Harry glanced sharply over at their housemate, a little startled by how invested Neville was getting in his tale. Neville at Hogwarts had never been this prolix, or this confident. Harry found himself rather liking Neville like this, finding his calm, steady presence a balm in between Flint and the odd effect the older boy had on him. Parvati, he noticed, was now flirting rather heavily with Theo Nott. The Slytherin looked to be readily reciprocating, and when he reached for her hand she let it drop, coyly, in his lap.

"Not even Padma knows what her alignment really is, and it's really difficult to hide something this big from your twin, more so an identical one, but somehow Parvati's managed it, don't ask me how. She's had to, though, learn the hard way, I mean. They had an older brother, you see, much older, who was killed shortly after they moved to England. It was in the aftermath of the war, and the twins had worshipped him right up till word got out about where his alignment fell. Padma swore him off completely. By the time he died she didn't give a rat's arse about him, said, 'Good riddance,' even, and didn't come to the funeral. Parvati was heartbroken."

Harry was stunned. He would never have suspected Parvati of having a skeleton this big in her closet. He was a little ashamed to admit that before, the worst he'd ever imagined of her was fobbing the colour coordination of her fingernails and toenails, maybe. He'd never once thought past her vapid exterior, even after last year when they'd gone to the Yule Ball together. And as for Padma- from what he remembered, when she'd gone with Ron, he would have expected her, the more serious twin, to lean towards the Dark rather than be so vehemently opposed to it.

"What happened after?" he asked, hushed.

"Their brother didn't just die, Harry," Neville said plainly. "He was murdered, and brutally so. In England, by Light Purists. Pranay Patil- he'd been a magnificent wizard, or so they said until word got out what his alignment was. Back in India, they never cared about banal classifications like Light and Dark. But here in England the two fields are completely polarised. It's gotten a little milder over the years, with Lucius Malfoy whispering in Fudge's ear, although it's starting to come back thanks to what happened at the Triwizard Tournament. There are far fewer people who believe you're mad than you think there are."

"I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not," he said dubiously. "But you- Neville, you knew?"

The other boy smiled faintly. "Hadn't a clue what happened until you came back and spilled the beans to Ron and Hermione in our dorm. I'm afraid I eavesdropped on that conversation. It was like hearing it from the horse's mouth!"

"Neiighh," he obliged dryly.

Neville laughed. "But last year marked the end of all that madness," he said firmly. "The Dark Lord's back in power, now, and he's got full rein over all of his old faithful."

"Including Bellatrix?" he couldn't help but ask.

Neville's face understandably dimmed at her mention, but he nodded all the same. "Yes, including Bellatrix. I've heard- she- she's just as mad as my parents, Harry." There was a tremor in his voice that all his Gryffindor bravado couldn't hide. "From before I used to want to go after her, but there's no honour in putting a wild beast down. And in a weird, twisted sense, I'm almost grateful for what she did. Knowing what I do now, I don't think I'd have lasted this long under my parents. Parvati's a much better actor than I am- it took me a long time to come to terms with this. It helped that the Dark Lord has already promised he'd deal with Bellatrix should it ever come down to that. Her madness doesn't fit into his plans, not anymore."

"And you trust him?" he asked.

Neville smiled, but it was a little bitter. "It's a bit of self-preservation too, Harry," he said. "You know what my Gran's like. Like I said, do you think my parents would have been any better? Have you any idea what they'd do to me if they ever found out what my alignment was?"

Augusta Longbottom was a Light-headed savage. Neville wouldn't last the day if she ever found out the truth about her grandson. Already she half-rued him being born at the expense of his parents.

"All- all right," Harry said, shakily. "I- I guess this is what Flint meant, when he said earlier about- something like how families have been torn apart for less."

Neville sighed. "Pranay, you know? No one ever knew how word got out, but it did, that he was Dark, and he started getting harassed after that. You've got to remember that this was just a few years on after the war, and the Lightsiders' strength was still peaking. The twins were six then, going on seven. Three months after word was leaked, Pranay was killed right in the middle of Diagon Alley by a spell to the back. There was no investigation, no announcement, nothing. The Patils remember their roots, or at least the parents and Parvati too, but Padma grew up too influenced by the English. She doesn't care for Pranay anymore, not even his memory."

Harry looked away. It sounded uncannily like how the Dursleys had treated the memory of his parents. His aunt had never cared for his mother after she went to Hogwarts. This sounded like far too much of the same.

"It's happened a lot less these few years," Neville added, "even if it was worse in the Middle Ages, when strife was really rampant among the Dark and Light. We've only ever had peace near the beginning, and a bit in the middle: in the time of Merlin, and then again with the Four Founders. It's been chaos ever since and in between."

"And you've chosen your side in it," he murmured.

Neville looked a little uneasy at his pronouncement, but he didn't back off. Harry was struck by the absolute image of self-assuredness Neville made, when the boy was usually twitchy and nervous. Neville still _looked_ the same: his hair was still coloured mouse-brown, his eyes sapphire blue. He'd lost a little of his baby fat over the summer, and shot up a few inches, although not enough to make a real dent in his appearance. But there was a glimmer of something he'd never seen before in Neville's eyes, something he would have once derided as 'Slytherin'. Harry didn't quite know how to react to it now.

The couch suddenly sank beside him, and he would've started away if a strong arm hadn't snagged him about the waist.

"Miss me?" he heard whispered in his ear, and he couldn't turn his head for the face in his way.

"Flint!" he gasped. But the older boy didn't let him go, merely reeled him in tighter. Harry gulped, swallowing against Flint's warmth. It didn't help any. He could still feel every inch of the other boy pressed to him, right through the robes that they both wore. "What're you doing?" he demanded, and planted an elbow eagerly into the older boy's gut, but winced instead. "Ow!" he yelped. "What're you made of, rock?"

"I'd much rather you see for yourself," Flint smirked.

Neville groaned, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "There he goes again."

"Again!" Harry exclaimed.

"Again," Neville teased, "and again and again and again. Horrid flirt, that Flint, with his- meep." He shut his mouth with a clatter at the look Flint was giving him. "I think I'll just be going now." He fair fled back to McLaggen and the rest, and was greeted by good-natured laughter.

"Merlin, you're childish sometimes, you know that?" he snapped, shoving his way out of Flint's grasp. More than anything he was trying to hide the strange antagonism he'd felt at Neville's words. But Flint gripped ahold of his arm and held on all the same.

"Longbottom was talking rot," he insisted. "It's never been serious previously. You don't know our traditions, but I'll be frank with you. I told you before, I was the one that asked for this. For _you._ And-" here Flint's pistachio eyes took on an eerie glint, "-I'm not very good at sharing."

Harry abruptly stopped fighting, allowing Flint to pin him down flat against the couch they were sharing. Flint's large hands ringed about his wrists far too easily, and they felt breakable in the other boy's grasp. He exhaled in a defeated sigh.

"What do you want?" he asked tiredly. His brain was starting to hurt from all this overload of information.

"It can't be that hard to figure out," Flint insisted. _"You, _damnit. I want _you."_

"Of all the stupid, _hare-brained _things-" he griped, but he didn't get any further than that when Flint bowed his head and kissed him.

* * *

><p>Pranay - leader, guidance, love in Sanskrit<p>

Cheers, and do review! Chapter four should be up next week around the same time.


	4. Chapter 4

**Anybody's Hero**

Rating: M

Summary: At the Wizengamot, Harry finds himself having a battle of wits with a very different opponent instead: Marcus Flint. Warnings for slash. Marcus/Harry.

For my 300th reviewer from **To****Bedlam****and****Partway****Back** , Lone-Angel-1992. I'm so sorry it took a whole bleeding year. But thanks ever so much for believing I'd come out with it in the end (o:

**NOTE: WARNINGS FOR BOY KISSES**

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, nor the lyrics of the Morrissey song the title comes from.

* * *

><p><span>Chapter Four<span>

He'd never kissed anyone before this, and he would've never believed it was someone male in front of him this first time, let alone _Marcus __Flint. _Surprisingly, Flint didn't go for the all-out mouth-rape. He seemed content enough to kiss him deeply and slowly, thoroughly, really. It almost felt like he was having a lesson in 101 French Kissing. Just with Marcus Flint.

Yeah, he was still trying to wrap his head around that last one there.

After a bit, Flint pulled back, and there was a warm, liquid look in his eye. "That wasn't so bad now, was it?" he murmured, and his voice was thick and gruff and the sound of it was doing all sorts of odd things to his lower belly.

"Umm..." Harry didn't trust his voice enough to speak.

Flint bent down and kissed him again, just lip on lip this time, with only the slightest hint of tongue at the end, swiping at his mouth with the tip as he pulled away and pulled up, taking Harry along with him. They were sitting upright on the couch again, and he was suddenly, achingly aware of how not alone they were in the room.

"I'm surprised you didn't take more than that," he rasped, and was a little impressed at how his voice didn't once waver.

"That's not what I want, Harry," Flint said, lowly, darkly. His hands were still on his body, burning their touch into his skin even through his new robes. "You think the Light's been the only ones watching you? Think again. And before you say it-" Flint nearly growled those words, "-I haven't found you wanting. Not of anything. In fact I've only ever found you more than deserving."

What a marvel today was, he wondered. Harry wasn't quite sure what he should be feeling, that the first one to truly know what he wanted and needed to hear most was a Death Eater. Or Death Eater-in-training, since Flint was sure to quibble about the title. He didn't protest when Flint reeled him in for another kiss. If he was honest with himself, it took far more effort to remain stiff and unyielding in Flint's arms than it would to just swoon in them.

"I'm not asking you to be anything," Flint continued to murmur in his ear, "save yourself. Remember that, Harry."

With that, Flint released him. He couldn't hide the shiver at the chill that overtook him once Flint let him go. The older boy was watching him intently, with what looked like concern in those pistachio eyes, but he seemed to sense that whatever comfort he offered now wouldn't be welcome. Harry was glad for the other's discretion. He didn't really feel up to having to steel himself against Flint. It was far easier just to melt, but melting was anything but the smart thing to do at the moment. He didn't bother wondering if it was the wise thing, and ignored his gut's call this time. He needed his head in this game, desperately, and with Flint's arms around him it was the hardest thing to do.

The older boy drew back, and with his receding presence came a clearer sense of self.

"You're doing something, aren't you?" he asked, not quite accusingly, not yet. "Things feel...different, when you're near me."

Going by the stunned look on Flint's face, he hadn't expected that at all.

"You...weren't doing something?" he asked with dread. Given the two, this was certainly the worst option. He didn't like to think what had come over him for him to respond to Flint in this way.

"Not consciously," Flint admitted. In that one moment he looked more vulnerable than he had the entire day. "I didn't think you'd be affected," he continued. "I have very good control." He made a face. "Or I _had_ very good control. I hadn't thought I'd dropped my shields…" Flint's pistachio eyes went into a daze, before rearing back in shock. "I haven't dropped them, not at all," he said faintly, looking shocked.

"What shields are you talking about?" Harry asked. They were so close that his breath stirred the deep auburn locks that fell into Flint's eyes. Flint just closed his eyes instead of replying. His arms were still about his waist, and they tightened minutely.

"I'll have to speak with my father about this," Flint murmured, his eyes still firmly shut. "I suspected this might happen, but I didn't- didn't think-"

"What're you on about?" he snapped, shaking Flint just a bit.

It caused the older boy to open his eyes, and smile fondly down at him before kissing him soundly, again.

"Nothing to worry your pretty little head about it," Flint murmured against his lips. Harry scowled, but couldn't help himself from kissing back, just a little bit. "To be honest, I don't quite know myself," the older boy confessed. "That's why I'm going to have to speak to my father about it. Ask me again, when I next see you. Maybe I'll have an answer then." Oddly enough, Flint seemed a little sad about it.

"All-all right," he muttered. Flint tried to give him a heartening smile, brushed his bangs from his face and pressed a kiss to his brow in a delicate, sweet gesture.

"It's time we got you home, I think," Flint said, his lips still lingering against his skin. "Those Lightsiders must be driving themselves off the wall by now."

He'd never admit to it, but Harry felt an actual zap of disappointment hit his gut at Flit's words. As strange and confusing as this afternoon had been, he felt like he'd learnt more during this time with Flint than his past four years at Hogwarts. But heading back to Grimmauld- he didn't know how he'd react to everyone back there now that he knew what he did. He wasn't lying when he'd said back then that he was awful at fibbing.

A sudden commotion behind them made him frown.

"What-" he began, twisting in his seat to see what they were on about. He didn't see Flint's eyes widen behind him.

The doors to the lounge were open, and there was a newcomer in their room. He gave a start at the sight. The man was certainly new to their room, but he certainly wasn't new to his life. Harry knew that face, had once studied its contours, heard its owner's words, and _wondered_. But after the moment had passed- he'd never expected to see it again, or face this very same dilemma again, especially after what had happened last year.

"Y-you," he stammered, but Flint had risen to his feet with a warm smile, and, along with the rest of the children in the room, sunk to his knees in a practiced, grace-filled action. His legs felt too weak to even think about standing at this new revelation.

"Tom Riddle," he said weakly, and it was. There, the mirror image of Voldemort's diary memory staring right back at him, cruel amusement lining his deep blue eyes. Gone was the hideous snake face and sibilant tones, the stick thin figure and sneering mouth. What was left was an extremely suave and put-together young man who didn't look a day past his Hogwarts graduation.

"You're a bit young to be Dark Lord, aren't you?" he rasped, a bit amazed at his own daring, given how their last meeting had gone.

Tittering laughter rippled through the gathered children, tinged with a touch of outrage, but more tickled than anything. Voldemort himself appeared little affected by the jibe apart from a smirk curling about his thin curved lips.

"Are you sure about this, Marcus?" he asked casually instead, his eyes never once leaving Harry's. He didn't dare look away like how he wanted to.

Beside him Flint bowed his head even lower. "Positive, my Lord," he replied.

"Very well," Voldemort said archly, "but you're also looking a little young yourself to be a Light Lord, Potter," he mocked.

"I'm not one," he retorted, frowning.

"It's what the old bastard's set you up to be, the perfect little tool. He'll keep stringing you along with his plans while you play his muscle," Voldemort continued. "And given enough time, he'll even cure you of thinking on your own. All those bloody thoughtless sods."

His frown deepened. "Hermione thinks plenty on her-"

"She's a Mudblood, Potter," Draco drawled from across the room, still hoisting Ackerly against his hip. It was the first time he'd heard the blond speak ever since entering Middleton, and somehow, Harry wasn't very surprised to hear those words leave his lips. But he was surprised at what followed.

"Of course she's spouting off of her own soapbox now. She hasn't been subjected to the same rigorous training as the Blood Traitors have. But give her a couple more years- she's the perfect example for them, even, with her eidetic memory and her unshakeable faith in establishment. The old fool won't even need to keep reminding her of what he's told her; she could regurgitate it for him, verbatim. You've already noticed it beginning, haven't you?"

Just last year he would have answered no. And the year before that, when she had slapped the blond and held him at wandpoint, he would have answered _hell __no. _But lately…the Hermione he'd known in First-Year, who'd been so damned grateful for just a _friend__…_she wouldn't have left him hanging like that just this year past. She would've used her smarts to get around the system Dumbledore had put in place, because she would have put their friendship first. Harry didn't even need to ask himself where Ron's priorities lay. The redhead had made it blindingly obvious over the years.

"You're confusing the child, Draco," Voldemort drawled, "leave him be." His blue eyes fell on him again, although he continued to speak to Flint alone. "Are you taking him back now, Marcus?"

"Yes, my Lord," Flint replied, rising to his feet to stand beside him. Harry barely noticed Flint helping him to his feet. Without the older boy's grip on his hand his knees would probably have buckled. This meeting with Voldemort was the furthest thing from anything he could've imagined, and the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back. He was rendered utterly speechless.

"Remind him about Diagon, Marcus. We've scheduled it for the last week of summer," were the Dark Lord's closing words, before he swept off in a swirl of aubergine robes that set off his pale skin and deep eyes perfectly.

"My Lord," Flint acknowledged with a last bow. He stayed in position till the doors clicked shut behind Voldemort, and the illusion of a boy left to whence he'd come.

"What even was that?" he rasped.

Flint smiled, cupping his face with a large hand to tilt it upwards. "That was our Lord," he answered, voice quiet and strong. "He is the embodiment of everything we believe in. Do you believe it now, when I say he has full control over the reins?"

Harry shuddered at even the memory of the pure power that had blanketed the room at Voldemort's arrival. Voldemort's teenaged form had worn that power around him effortlessly like a cloak, and it roiled and billowed before him wherever he commanded. What he had seen of Voldemort these past few years had been the illusion, he realised. Suddenly he was abruptly glad the Dark Lord appeared to have outgrown the need for murder in his presence. He doubted whatever luck he'd had in all their past clashes would hold out any longer. He was furious at Dumbledore for having orchestrated things like that. He'd been misled, he realised. Harry had always thought himself a little more on the prepared side of things when it really came down to it, thanks to his _sheer__dumb__luck_and Hermione's smarts. He wasn't, not one bit. Dumbledore was setting up a lamb for the slaughter. How could he have been so blind?

Harry steeled his jaw against it. He may have neighed for Neville on a lark, but he sure as hell wasn't going to start baaing for Dumbledore.

"Hey, hey," Flint murmured, thumb rubbing at the base of his clenched jaw. The soft touch drew him out of his self-flagellation. "Relax a little, would you? Trust that the Dark Lord knows what he's doing. He's shared his vision with us and he knows what we think of it, all of it, and everything's been taken into account."

"I never wanted to be involved in any of this." He exhaled loudly, feeling his shoulders weigh down. Just as soon as the anger had come, it was gone. He couldn't even quite bring himself to hate Dumbledore that much. He was just so very tired. He'd never considered it before, never allowed himself to, but abstinence was what he longed for most right now.

Flint slid his hand down his arm till their fingers were interlaced, and gently led him out of the room. He saw Neville start from his seat, making as if to rise with concern plainly writ on his face, but he shook his head lightly. He'd be okay. It'd just take a while to get used to things was all.

Flint took him out back onto Rue Morgue, where he saw the sky had significantly darkened.

"They must be bouncing off the walls back at Grimmauld," he carelessly said.

"Is that where you're staying?" Flint asked, curious.

"Yes," Harry reluctantly admitted, suddenly aware of the fact that he wasn't the only one living at the old Black townhouse. As much as he resented the Lightsiders now, he still didn't fully trust the Dark not to go batshit insane on him, no matter how lucid Voldemort had appeared to him just now.

But he needn't have worried. All Flint did was nod in acquiescence before tugging him down the street, all apparent interest in the subject lost.

The entrance to Rue Morgue was, unsurprisingly, through Knockturn Alley, right at the very end of it, which explained how he'd never found it when he was gallivanting through its streets back in Second-Year. Once they re-entered familiar streets, Flint had him pull his hood up, throwing shadows across his face and distorting it. They paused for a moment at the Leaky Cauldron.

"How will you get back from here?" Flint asked quietly, pulling him close so they could speak without the interference of the still-strong crowd. "Can I Apparate you somewhere, or will you be taking the Knight Bus?"

Harry gave a horrified shudder at its mention. "Not that bloody contraption again," he swore. "Took it my first and last time in my Third-Year. I think it gave me more of a fright than Professor Lupin did then."

Flint chuckled in his ear. "That sounds like a story and a half. You owe it to me some time, Harry."

He just squirmed noncommittally in Flint's arms. If Flint's emotions really were leaking through his shields, however in hell that was happening, he desperately needed some time away from the older boy to really think things through, and _focus._

_ "_It's pretty nearby in London," he said, shrugging. "I can get there on foot. I'll find my way there easy enough."

"All right." Flint seemed to accept his answer at face value and he was grateful for that, all the way up to the point where Flint pulled him up for another kiss. Harry let a little more of himself go this time. It was frightfully, frightfully easy. He let a little sigh escape as the older boy eventually pulled away.

"Here." Harry found a scrap of parchment being pushed into his hands. "It's been charmed to work two-ways. Remember to cast the Vanishing charm after you've written anything on it. It will wipe all the old writings from the sheet. Tap your wand against it and say, 'Evanesco'."

"Evanesco," he dutifully repeated. For that he got a pleased nod and another kiss, one that had their tongues curling around each other. Harry felt himself sinking deeper each time.

"Alright," Flint murmured, "I really should let you go now." Despite his words, the older boy made no move to remove his hands from his person, instead moving them down to the small of his back. Harry shuddered as their hips touched, but he certainly wasn't pushing him away either. "As for the clothes..." Flint trailed his fingers down the front of his robes, burning a line down his chest that made his lungs clench from within their bony cage.

"Tell them you fancied a bit of a jaunt. It's about time you got yourself cleaned up, anyways. If I can get my hands on the rest of your old clothes I think I just might incinerate the lot of it. I've already commissioned a whole wardrobe from Hobbes for you. The owls will probably start delivering them today or tomorrow, depending on how overworked the poor sod makes himself. He gets himself up in frenzies like that so easily."

"You're ridiculous," he muttered into Flint's chest. "I was fine with my old clothes-"

The other boy tapped him teasingly on the lips, stoppering his words. "New clothes make a new person," he quoted. "This wouldn't at all be a bad change to celebrate."

"Fine," he said to Flint's second button, fighting off the urge to simultaneously glower and blush at the same time. He was a little embarrassed over the condition of his clothes, but he couldn't deny that with his new wardrobe he was a little pleased, too.

"Write me," Flint ordered again, the fingers on his mouth stroking across the skin of his face. "Try to avoid Diagon if you can, especially on the last week of summer. We've got something planned- no, we're not going to massacre the lot of them," he said, rolling his eyes at the accusing look Harry shot him, "so don't worry your pretty little head about it. It's a diversion at the most, and it's meant to be as bloodless as we can make it. So don't come back here, all right? I suppose if you must, make sure Longbottom goes with you, but I'll owl order all your books and supplies for you and have them sent same as the clothes so at least that way you won't have an excuse to leave your hideout."

"Yeah," he mumbled, "fine. I'd better go." But he didn't move, either.

Flint chuckled in his ear, cupped his face in his bloody overlarge hands and kissed him one last time, quite thoroughly. A strange feeling curdled in his belly. And then Flint finally released him. Harry's arms immediately came up to wrap about himself, but they weren't half the comfort Flint's had been- good god, had he really been looking to _Marcus__Flint_for _comfort?_

"Go on," Flint urged, faintly smiling. There wasn't anything teasing about it this time, just a fondness softened by the deepening twilight. Harry glanced back at his face one last time, before he turned and fair fled.

* * *

><p>Thanks for reading, and do review! Cheers.<p> 


	5. Chapter 5

**Anybody's Hero**

Rating: M

Summary: At the Wizengamot, Harry finds himself having a battle of wits with a very different opponent instead: Marcus Flint. Warnings for slash. Marcus/Harry.

For my 300th reviewer from **To Bedlam and Partway Back** , Lone-Angel-1992. I'm so sorry it took a whole bleeding year. But thanks ever so much for believing I'd come out with it in the end (o:

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, nor the lyrics of the Morrissey song the title comes from.

* * *

><p><span>Chapter Five<span>

It didn't matter how quietly he slipped back into Grimmauld. Within seconds Walburga Black was screaming bloody murder at the top of her lungs and he winced, shying away from her volume.

"Harry!"

Eyes widening in alarm, he instinctively ducked and Ginny nearly rammed herself headfirst into the wall.

"Oops," was all he could manage with a straight face. "But you really should know by now, Ginny, that I don't take well to surprises."

Behind them Charlie Weasley chuckled. "I'll say."

He whirled about in surprise. "Charlie! I haven't seen you since the First Task. When did you get back?"

The second oldest redhead sibling shrugged with a loose roll of his heavy shoulders. "Not too long ago, actually. I'd just reached the Burrow when Mum came in hollering about you having gone missing," he added, with a bit of a pointed look.

Harry scratched his head. "Er, well, yes. About that-"

"Harry!" Hermione exclaimed. He started, not knowing when she'd pushed her way through the crowd. "How could you! That was so irresponsible of you! You could have gotten lost! You could have been kidnapped by You-Know-Who! Anything could have happened! We were all so worried, especially when none of our tracking spells could-"

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Tracking spells? You put _tracking spells _on me?

Hermione flushed. "We-well, it was only to keep track of you. Dumbledore said- H-Harry, you know how you like to run about-"

"-because the lot of you keep following me when it's the last thing in the world I want!" he snapped back. "For the love of Merlin, is it so hard to get some privacy around here?"

Snape swooped above them like an overlarge hook-nosed bat. The way he sneered caused his nostrils to flare, and that really wasn't a flattering look on him. "Now you listen here, you little-"

"Whatever you've got to say to me, I've already heard it," Harry said firmly. "If my self-esteem is ever in need of being torn to shreds, I know who to go to." That left Snape seething furiously.

"Harry, what's gotten into you?" Hermione demanded. "You shouldn't be so rude."

Finally Mr. Weasley stepped in, favouring everyone with a fatherly façade. "Come now, everyone, it's all no farm, no howl, isn't it? Harry's come back all safe and sound, and the trial was cancelled about five minutes before the Wizengamot would have convened, thank Merlin for small mercies. Maybe he should have told one of us before he left, but-"

"Arthur!" Mrs. Weasley screeched, causing the lot of them to wince and Walburga to scream even louder, refusing to be outdone. "How can you speak of this as if it was nothing! You know how dangerous it is for him to be out there-"

"Like it's a lot safer in here," he retorted, "with the lot of you hovering over me. It's suffocating! And if something happens to me out there, at least I'll die _breathing!" _

They all stopped their arguments to stare at him, wide eyes betraying their surprise.

"This is exactly why I left this morning," he told them fiercely. "This was exactly what I couldn't handle."

"Oh, Harry," Hermione fretted, "you know it's all just for your own good. We're all just trying to help!"

"Well, thanks, Hermione, but find some other way of trying, all right?" he said bluntly. "Because this method obviously isn't working."

He tried to duck past the rest of them, but apparently Hermione couldn't take a hint, because she was still trying to bombard him with questions.

"Where did you go this afternoon?" she asked.

"I don't know," he replied irritably. "Somewhere in Muggle London, I guess. I had to find my way back to Diagon afterward. All I wanted to do was get out."

Hermione gave a gasp. "Accidental Apparition?" she exclaimed. "Oh, Harry, that's-"

"Incredibly dangerous!" Mrs. Weasley snapped, desperate to get her two cents in. "What if you'd been Splinched, or Merlin forbid, _seen-" _

Harry rolled his eyes. "Glad to see you got your priorities right," he muttered, not seeing Hermione flush. "Where's Sirius, anyways?"

Lupin, who'd just come in to see the commotion, blanched. "He's, er, well, he's indisposed," the werewolf admitted pathetically.

Harry gave him a blank stare. He remembered the wild look about his godfather's eyes when he'd first come, and the way he'd tried to hide his shaking hands. Sirius did a worse job at hiding the bottles.

"He's drunk, isn't he?" Harry asked flatly. Lupin winced at the baldness of his words, but didn't say anything. He didn't have to. His silence spoke far more than his mouth ever would.

"To get back to that," Hermione called, rallying bravely, "the Statue of Secrecy is awfully strict about Apparition," she lectured. "There's a reason why it's licensed. It's incredibly dangerous, Harry!"

He bit his lip against anything he might have said against her. It really did seem like she was just concerned. It was Mrs. Weasley, though, who sent him right over the edge.

"Oh, Harry," she tutted, bustling about, "You've really got to be more careful. I know you never go _looking _for trouble, but honestly, is it so hard for you to just avoid it?"

He stared at her as if she'd grown another head. "Trouble just likes to find me," he finally managed out. "Tell you what: if it ever comes knocking on my door again, I'll send them over to you so you can set them straight, all right Mrs. Weasley? You seem to be so good at that, after all, with your Howlers." He didn't bother staying to hear her reply, just dodged the rest of them and shot up the stairs. He ignored the eruption of outrage he left behind in the entrance hall and didn't stop still he'd reached Buckbeak's attic space, bowing to the caged creature and waiting for him to return the sentiment before crawling behind the hippogriff to hide against his furred flanks.

By the love of everything magical, this was only five minutes into his first week here. If the rest of his stay was going to be anything like this, he was going to go barmy before school even began.

Buckbeak settled back into his small nest of hay, rustling his wings. Harry squirmed about to avoid getting squashed, and froze when he heard a crinkle of parchment from his hip. The two-way parchment! Scowling, he dug into his pockets for it and conjured a pen before writing a scathing sentence to Flint. He never remembered feeling this antagonistic towards the Lightsiders before. It was only after his _little talk _with Flint that all these sorts of emotions started to surface.

_You're a right bastard, you know, _were the first words he put down. _I wouldn't have paid attention to half the things they said before today- but you really did have to open your overlarge mouth now, didn't you? _

He really was getting mouthy now, wasn't he? Harry was going to blame it all on the hormones. Apparently he'd grown his guts the same time he'd grown his balls.

The reply came almost immediately. _Was ignorance bliss, then?_

He scowled fiercely at the words, even if Flint couldn't see his expression. _Ask me something I can side with my friends with, why don't you? _If he hesitated before writing the word 'friends', Flint didn't need to know it.

Still, the other boy seemed to have sensed his reluctance even through the written page, as his next line went, _Can they even still be considered your friends anymore? _

That was as far as he got before the door was blown wide open and nearly off its hinges, Ron and Hermione appearing through the space like the end of some cartoon skit. They skidded to a halt, though, at the sight of the very regal, if slightly bedraggled hippogriff drawing himself up to his full height and glaring imperiously down at them. Wobbling just a bit, Ron managed a shaky bow that Buckbeak made no move to reciprocate.

"Harry, come out of there, would you?" Hermione pled. "It's no use hiding like this. Mrs. Weasley's already Flooed the Headmaster that you've been found, so he should be coming over to speak to you about the Wizengamot session and your disappearance."

"Don't you mean 'to speak _at_ me'?" he jibed. "Besides, I'm quite fine here." Harry didn't bother mentioning how he was almost completely hidden by the hippogriff's massive wings that the magnificent creature had spread. "If the Headmaster wants to speak to me, he can come and find me. I've done the same on his whim plenty of times before that he can do the same for me."

"Oi, mate, come off it, will you?" Ron sounded choppy, and harsh, leaking the signs of his fraying temper. He'd never liked it when Harry was the centre of attention, even in situations like this. Harry spied Hermione elbow him in the ribs as if she knew what the redhead was thinking. He suppressed the urge to roll his eyes at the two of them.

"Like I said," he continued, "I'm quite fine here. But I'd get out of here pretty quick. Buckbeak doesn't look too happy, and I think you both remember what happened to the last bloke that pissed him off-"

They exchanged another telling look between them before they were off like a shot. He grimaced at their retreating backs, and then sighed as his clenched fingers unconsciously crumpled the parchment still in them. There was more writing on it when he looked again.

_I'm sorry if you didn't want to hear that. But the Lightsiders, if they aren't knowing tools, are ignorant tools, and I'm not sure either sort is the type you'd want to call 'friend'. _

He sighed again, and scribbled off a quick, _I know, _before folding the parchment and jamming it in his pocket. Harry glanced up to see Buckbeak staring down at him haughtily, before ruffling his wings in demand. He smiled a little, and rubbed at the downy grey of the flank nearest to him.

"All right then," he murmured, picking up a curry comb, "since I'm here, I might as well be put to good use."

* * *

><p>The next few days marked a definite chilling in the relations between the Gryffindor Golden Trio. Hermione kept shooting him wounded looks and Ron would glare daggers when they thought he wasn't looking. It was all sorts of absurd. Mrs. Weasley was obviously siding with them, while Mr. Weasley and Lupin were all for making peace between everyone. While he might have understood where Mr. Weasley was coming from, being the father and husband and all, it kind of irked him how Lupin seemed to be toeing the line on everything. The one good thing about the whole situation was, that when Sirius finally sobered up and found out what was going on, he went and called Mrs. Weasley 'a bloody nosy bint', which put everyone's nose out of joint for a bit. Harry thought it was hilarious.<p>

So it pit the dog and his whelp-son against the Weasleys and everybody else, sort of. The activity at least managed to rouse Sirius out of his depressed fugue as they sought refuge in Buckbeak's attic together and chatted about absolutely anything and everything that came to mind. Well, everything, that is, except Flint's scrap of parchment he kept on him at all times.

Sirius had seen him fingering it on a couple of occasions, but he'd never mentioned it, merely raised a jaunty eyebrow at him. Harry made sure Hermione and Ron never saw even a corner of it. Even if he had wiped the parchment, and hadn't written on it since that first time, he still didn't trust them if they got their hands on it.

"You going together with a bird?" Sirius finally asked one day, about a week before Hogwarts was slated to reopen. The season had gone by uncannily fast and for once he hadn't resented too terribly being locked up where he was. They were upstairs grooming Buckbeak again, and the hippogriff was now possibly the glossiest creature he'd ever seen. Sirius had been so pleased he'd spent the better part of the past week blasting through partitions in the attic space and roping Harry into helping him so that Buckbeak had a little more room to trot in. "Finally a good use to this pit of a house," he'd called it. Kreacher was still sobbing in the kitchen downstairs. It was all a bit unfortunate that Sirius was so firmly against the Dark, mostly because of how he associated it with his mother. Walburga was definitely the overzealous sort, Harry decided. If she were still around, he suspected Voldemort would put her down just as quickly as he said he would Bellatrix Lestrange.

"How'd you figure?" he asked, smiling bemusedly at his dogfather.

Sirius jerked his head towards his trouser pocket with a crooked grin. "I've seen you running the edge of that parchment ragged," he said. "Figured it was a letter you got from her." He narrowed his eyes speculatively at him. "Or him," he added. "Also, the owls coming by weren't exactly subtle."

"Him," Harry conceded, shoving both hands bashfully into the pockets of the new pair of trousers he was wearing, courtesy of Flint. True to the older boy's word, owls had flooded Grimmauld, thankfully coming straight to his room instead of the kitchen, but it was hard to miss the flurry of avians depositing large packages for him and shedding all over the bedspreads. Ron had complained bitterly about it, but when Harry said it was about time he had some clothes of his own seeing as how he'd been wearing _castoffs for the past sixteen years, _the redhead promptly shut up about it. Thankfully, only his godfather seemed to have associated the packages as courting gifts.

Sirius grinned, looking almost vulpine with his skull bones stark under his pale skin. "So you are, then?" he asked.

Buckbeak made a discontented sound and butted him lightly with his head, demanding to be scratched. Harry obliged the hippogriff for a while as he tried to figure out what to say.

"Er- well, I wouldn't say it's anything official," he hedged. "It's more sort of like we fell into it. I, er, didn't get to know him very well in school."

Sirius barked a laugh and joined his hands on Buckbeak's head. The hippogriff arched his neck, nearly purring. "And so the mystery develops!" Sirius narrowed his eyes at him, and the intelligence glittering in his grey eyes was startling. His godfather, Harry realised abruptly, was far too quick for his own good. "He's not someone the Weasleys would approve of, is he?"

Harry snorted. "The only one the Weasleys would approve of is another Weasley," he groused, effectively dodging the question. From the way Sirius grinned at him, he knew he hadn't fooled the man. But the questions stopped there, so Harry was grateful for that much, at least.

"Is he good to you?" Sirius asked, and he didn't show any of his usual exuberance. There was a solemn cast to his face, and his lips were pulled tight.

Harry bit his lip. "He wants to be good to me," he confessed. "He said no one really has been, before."

"Harry, he's right," Sirius said fiercely. "Not me, not Dumbledore, not the Weasleys, and certainly not Remus. None of us have ever done right by you."

He frowned. "Sirius, what are you saying-"

"If he's powerful enough to keep you hidden from all those bloody tracking spells they tried finding you with, then maybe he's powerful enough to get you out of this thrice-damned house," Sirius growled, scowling at the very walls.

"Sirius," he said carefully, "I don't understand-"

The man narrowed his eyes at him. "You understand a lot more than you're letting on," he said, "if not you'd never have gotten involved with him in the first place."

"I didn't understand a damn thing till he came barging in!" he shot back, a little stung by Sirius's accusation. "I never asked for him either, to just come in and- and-"

"Sweep you off your feet?" Sirius finished dryly, and he must have looked so insulted that the man just burst out laughing.

"I'm not a ruddy fairytale princess," he muttered mutinously, digging his fingers voraciously into Buckbeak's scruff. The creature nearly went limp with pleasure against him.

"I never said you were," Sirius reminded him, grey eyes shining with amusement. "But seriously, pup-"

"Seriously?" He arched an eyebrow at Serious.

"Siriusly," his godfather replied, somehow with a straight face.

"Why?" he asked. "Have you gotten...disillusioned, by everyone?"

Sirius looked away. "It's probably not a good idea to speak of it here," he said, "but there isn't anywhere else we can go. Suffice to say when they start whipping out phrases like, 'for the greater good,' I start getting a little leery. My mum used to say the same damn thing to me, and look how that turned out."

Harry blinked, a little nonplussed. "There aren't very many alternatives," he said carefully.

"No," Sirius replied mildly, "there aren't. But then again, if your boy can keep you away from one side, can't he keep you away from the other as well? He seems open enough to let you have a choice, at least."

Harry had to tread carefully here. "And what if...what if I went- to that other side."

Sirius frowned. "You _would- _after everything it's done to you?"

"It's nothing like your mother said it was," he quietly replied. "Sirius, I- I haven't forgotten what they've done. I just- I just think what they are now may be the only real chance I'd ever got."

His godfather looked torn. "I don't have any right at all to tell you what to do-"

"-but I think you'd make the most sense out of the lot," he retorted.

Sirius smiled at him, with gratitude for that vote of confidence. "But that still doesn't change the fact that I don't have that right," he continued, gently. "None of us do. We lost any right, I think, when we sentenced you to that hellhole of a Muggle's place, inadvertently or not." Harry's face darkened at the Dursleys' mention, and Sirius didn't miss it.

"I know, pup, I know," he crooned comfortingly. "So all I'm going to say is you've got a good head on your shoulders."

"That's a helluva lot more than those gits downstairs are willing to admit," he grumbled, folding his hands over his chest.

Sirius smiled, and ruffled his hair. "You've got a good head on your shoulders," he repeated, "so I think you'll know what to do with it."

Harry tentatively smiled back. He hadn't thought Sirius would have supported him in staying Neutral, even, let alone what he'd just suggested. This was already more than he'd ever expected out of the man.

"Thank you, Sirius," he said.

"You're welcome, pup," Sirius grinned, before Buckbeak brayed, loudly, and demanded their attention again.

* * *

><p>He retreated to his and Ron's room later that afternoon, thinking he might find some peace and quiet there now that the other kids had been roped in to helping Mrs. Weasley clean the house. It was a mistake.<p>

"Harry!" It was Hermione. He swore under his breath, wondering how in hell they'd managed to get away from that harpi- from Mrs. Weasley, he meant. "Get changed and come down, will you? Hogwarts is reopening next week already, and we're getting ready to go to Diagon and pick up our things for school." She knocked on the door before opening it, and poked her head in, no-nonsense-like, with Ginny peering curiously over her shoulder. Ron didn't bother with the subtlety, just shoved the door wide open and strode in.

He remembered what Flint had said about staying off the street, as well as Voldemort's offhand remark about Diagon, and absently tightened his lips.

"No thanks," he said, ignoring the way Ron's mouth gaped open at his words. "I think I've had quite enough of Diagon and London that time. Besides, I've already had all my things delivered, and if I've left anything off I'm sure I can owl-order it. Hedwig hasn't been seeing much work lately, haven't you girl?" he cooed, scratching at her ruff. His snowy owl obliged him with a hoot and blink of her pendulous golden eyes.

"Not go?" Ron exclaimed in horror. "You've got to be kidding, mate! C'mon, you've been cooped up here for the past- well, the entire summer." Good god, had it really been that long? "We can go check out the new brooms that're out this year. Harry, c'mon!"

"I'd really rather not, Ron," he said again, a little more pointedly. He didn't miss the desperate sort of look the redhead shot Hermione. By the love of all things magical, were they really tag-teaming him into this?

"Harry, we've hardly seen you this past summer," the bushy-haired brunette tried. She wasn't as good an actress as she thought she was. Her smile was shaky, and those shadows under her eyes certainly weren't helping. For a moment there, Harry wasn't sure if she were faking it. But then Ginny butted in, and threw him off completely.

"C'mon, Harry," the younger redhead urged. "You've been cooped up here this whole while. We've missed you," she finished softly, with a killer bat of her lashes. That last bit nearly had him do a double take. Sure, there was that horrendous singing dwarf Valentine back in Second-Year, but she'd been going with _Neville _at the Yule Ball last year! Then he thought things through about what he really knew about Neville, and decided that couldn't have been more than a front from the Longbottom heir. But still, he thought she'd gotten over her ridiculous crush on him. He _really _didn't want her attentions directed back at him anymore.

He turned irritably away from them. "Come off it, you lot, all right? I just don't feel like going. The three of you go hang out. I'm sure you'll will have plenty more fun without me." He played his trump, stretching languidly out on his bed. "Besides, you know how the Order's always blathering on about how dangerous it is for me to leave the bloody house. I'm just listening to them for once."

Harry didn't see them exchange a worried look over his head. He did, however, hear Mrs. Weasley shriek and squeal all the way up.

"Oh, Harry!" she exclaimed, and tried to touch a hand to his forehead but he ducked away, alarmed. The woman looked a little wounded, but he was just largely trying to figure out what in Merlin's name she was trying to do, woman! "Are you feeling ill? Then we should get you out of bed and downstairs and get some soup into you-"

"Where in the world did you get that I was sick?" he asked incredulously. "I mean, thanks for the concern, Mrs. Weasley, but I'm feeling perfectly fine."

"But Ron said-"

"Mrs. Weasley, I don't really care what he said. I just don't want to go."

"Oh, Harry," she sighed as if he were a pitiful child and the tone itself made him bristle nearly more than her condescending words. "Children really should go out and get their exercise."

"Fine!" he exclaimed, jerking himself out of bed and slamming doors all the way to the bathroom. "I'll go to the bloody Alley! Just- for Merlin's sake- _leave me alone!" _That last door slammed the hardest, and at the front hall Walburga Black began to wail.

Harry thunked his head heavily against the back of the bathroom door in time with that damn portrait's cries. "Dear wizarding god," he pled, "please, _please, _kill me now."

* * *

><p>It didn't get any better once they left. Actually he was surprised they'd managed that much at all, given how long it'd taken to organise the adults into teams to guard the teenagers. It was just the Weasley children, him and Hermione, although apparently Neville would be joining them once they were at Diagon proper. He was a little cautious about how Neville would act, but he needn't have bothered. When he met their yearmate for the first time since Rue Morgue, he had to pinch himself to make sure he hadn't been dreaming. Neville acted as if the boy he'd met at that safehouse had never existed (when he managed to get him alone and ask what he was doing, joining them in Diagon after Voldemort's warning, all the boy had said was, "Got to keep up appearances.").<p>

Draco, too. He was one of the first few they'd run into along Diagon, just outside Florean's, actually, and the blond acted much the same as ever. He did notice, however, that Draco's barbs were directed more towards the Weasleys and Hermione than himself. He was inwardly grateful at that, as he still hadn't really made up his mind on how to react to any of them, and would've probably ended up resenting being called out on it.

The attack fell close to the end of their trip. Ron and Hermione had been trying to cajole him into some sense of camaraderie the whole way, while he tried to use Neville as a buffer between the two. Ron took out his frustration on the poor boy, which certainly didn't endear him to either of them, while Hermione's attempts at tempering Ron's crassness came off like she was nagging him, setting the redhead off even more.

"They should just shag and be done with it," Neville muttered in his ear when they had a spare moment hiding out at the Herbology section of Flourish and Blott's. Harry fought from laughing so hard he nearly tripped over Padfoot, who was trotting around him with his plumed tail waving jauntily, jaw gaping in a canine grin. Neville had been a little leery of the large dog at the beginning, but Harry had inclined his head towards Padfoot as he'd introduced him as, "Snuffles," and the other boy seemed to at least understand he could speak freely with the canine present. Which made things infinitely easier on him; that was two persons in his public-approved entourage who knew and shared his private views, and he was thankful for all the support he could get out here.

The Bombarding hex came out of nowhere, shattering the brick section of an upper-storey house and causing everyone to duck and scatter. Harry shot away from the Order first chance he got with only Padfoot fast on his heels. He felt a little bad about abandoning Neville to the hyenas, but he couldn't stay there, not when he knew Flint was somewhere out there. He didn't have to go very far to find him; a hand yanked him right off the street as he ran by Madam Malkin's. He stumbled on the cobblestones, swinging himself about with the momentum with his wand raised, but froze when the tip illuminated the familiar face of Marcus Flint.

He shoved Padfoot aside before the huge dog could make off with Flint's hand between his jaws.

"Snuffles, it's fine!"

Flint blinked down at Padfoot, who was still baring his fangs in a snarl, even if his grey eyes were wide with shock.

"Snuffles, please- I'll explain later," he urged, pushing at Padfoot's head again. The dog snapped out of his haze and looked at him, whining. "Go- find Remus. Tell him you lost me. It's chaotic enough. And if he tries to blame you- his nose is as good as yours. He doesn't have an excuse," he said, a little testily. Remus still hadn't taken any sides between him and the Weasleys, preferring instead to play at peacemaker, which Harry felt showed his side as much as anything. It was like Mr. Weasley, who should've sided with the rest of his family, but made it a point to defend Harry as much as caution him. Remus said nothing for or against him, and he somewhat resented that. Going by Sirius's sullen silence towards his old mate, the last Marauder felt much the same.

Padfoot whined again, and he summoned up a shaky smile, rubbing behind the canine's large ears. "Go on, then." Padfoot whined at him once, and then, with one last threatening growl directed Flint's way, took off the same way they'd come.

Flint stared after Padfoot's retreating back. "What the hell was that?"

Harry turned on him and shoved him something fierce. "Never mind what the hell that was! What the hell was _this-"_

The older boy growled, his temper igniting. "What the hell are _you_ doing down here?" Flint snarled, slamming him back against a shop wall, abruptly regaining his ire and apparently having forgotten Padfoot entirely. "We told you Diagon wasn't safe! Don't you know how dangerous this is? They're going to force you out into the open-"

Harry foisted him back. "They'd only force me out because you pushed them to it!" he snapped back, suddenly furious. He tried not to think about how he'd known immediately Flint had meant the Lightsiders. "You're _attacking _Diagon Alley? After what you said to me? What're they supposed to think? What am _I _supposed to think?"

Flint grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt and hauled him close to the mouth of the alley. "Look," he ordered, "around you and _tell_ me this looks anything like a real attack."

He hated to admit it but none of the supposed Death Eaters were using even vaguely deadly spells. He saw a Cutting curse fly one way, but that was from an overzealous passerby that was taken down by a Tripping jinx. Harry gaped.

"What are you _doi-" _he began, but Flint hauled him back into the alley. He was smiling down at him now, but there was still some lingering tightness in his face about his eyes.

"I told you," he said, "things were going to change once our Lord fully returned. He's got the reins on this revolution on tight. This is nothing more than a diversion. It's big, it's noisy, and it'll get all the Aurors scrambling down here. And with a little bit of luck- they won't know where we've hit them till _months _down the road."

"But where-" Harry tried to ask, but Flint was already shooing him further down the alley, and blasted in the door of the closest house. Someone behind it shrieked, but before Harry could react Flint had already Stunned them.

"Was that really necessary?" he snapped.

Flint rolled his eyes. "Stop being so delicate," he said, "it was just a Stupefy_. _At most they'll wake up with a headache. I even made sure they didn't brain themselves on a table corner. Come on, then, let's get you back."

"To where?" Harry demanded incredulously. "Where I'm staying doesn't have a Fireplace. And I'd rather wait it out here than go back to the Muggles', not that they'd take me, besides."

"I'd send you to Middleton, but Merlin knows what kind of trouble you'd get up to there all by yourself," Flint murmured, the tip of his nose just brushing his neck as the older boy bent his head close. Harry fought not to shiver. Then Flint reached for his right hand, and squinted at his wrist. Harry stared.

"Are you reading my _watch_?_" _It was a plain Muggle analogue one, and Harry was more surprised that Flint could understand it than anything else.

"They should have had more than enough time already," the older boy said cryptically. "Floo to the Ministry instead. It should be empty by now, and it's infinitely safer there than it would be here."

Harry squinted. "The _Ministry? _Why would I want to go back to the _Ministry?"_

Flint smiled again, but it was strained. "You might see a pretty bauble or two," he said. "But you've got to go, now," he insisted. "I'll come find you afterward. Now go!"

The older boy snatched a handful of Floo powder from the hearth and flung it haphazardly past the grate, pushing him forward. Stumbling, Harry inhaled a lungful of powder instead and barely managed to hack out, "Ministry of Magic!" before he found himself spiralling forward in a flare of green flame. He wasn't quite sure if he imagined those lips on the back of his neck or not.

* * *

><p>And so the plot thickens (o: Things might be progressing a little quickly, but this piece is only sixteen chapters, including the epilogue, so we've got a lot of ground to cover. Thanks for reading, and do review. Cheers.<p> 


	6. Chapter 6

**Anybody's Hero**

Rating: M

Summary: At the Wizengamot, Harry finds himself having a battle of wits with a very different opponent instead: Marcus Flint. Warnings for slash. Marcus/Harry.

For my 300th reviewer from **To Bedlam and Partway Back** , Lone-Angel-1992. I'm so sorry it took a whole bleeding year. But thanks ever so much for believing I'd come out with it in the end (o:

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, nor the lyrics of the Morrissey song the title comes from.

* * *

><p><span>Chapter Six<span>

Harry tumbled out at the Ministry of Magic in precious better condition than he left. He coughed harshly, the sound echoing loudly in the empty Ministry atrium, and, unfortunately, attracting the unwanted attention of the two beings standing nearby. He groaned aloud at the sight of them; that colour blond with those features were unmistakeable. And he recognised the other from his time-turning misadventures during Third-Year.

"What a surprise," Narcissa Malfoy drawled, sounding almost bored. "Harry Potter. And you came from Diagon- I take it Marcus Flint sent you?"

Harry bit his lip, but nodded. Although her wand was out, Mrs. Malfoy didn't appear to be holding it at the ready. Behind her, Walden MacNair was a different story entirely.

"Potter!" MacNair crowed victoriously. "Our Lord will be so pleas-"

Mrs. Malfoy rolled her eyes and cast two rapid spells in succession, "Silencio; Crucio!" It only went to show how much her heritage had bred true when it appeared she barely needed to exert herself with the Unforgivable. Beneath it, MacNair writhed in a parody of euphoric paroxysms. Harry shuddered and looked away. He'd been under it himself, he remembered, at the graveyard just last year. Watching someone else succumb to it wasn't anywhere near as bad as being cursed himself, but it wasn't exactly pleasant, either.

Ten seconds later, Mrs. Malfoy released her spells. MacNair's gasping breaths rang hollow and grating throughout the atrium.

"Don't presume before you act, MacNair," she said coolly. "You're behaving like a Gryffindor. The Flint Heir has vouched for Potter, which means that his father will stand with him. Do you truly want to deal with either of them?" Harry couldn't tell if the shudder MacNair gave was from her words or the aftereffects of the Cruciatus. "And if Flint has dared to vouch for him- you can be sure it's only because our Lord has approved." This time, Harry was sure MacNair shivered because of her words. "Do you think either are the sort that liked to be crossed?"

Mrs. Malfoy turned away, ignoring any attempt MacNair made to answer. "My companion needs to learn to think before he acts, I'm afraid," she said dismissively. "I take it you are looking for our Lord?"

He bit his lip against any words he might have loosed at Mrs. Malfoy's offhand reference to _'their _Lord'. She had been polite enough up till now, and he had no wish to see her wand loosed on him, either, with the same cruel efficiency.

"Yeah, well, I don't really know," he replied truthfully, a little put out. "Flint just shoved me into the nearest Floo and told me it'd be safer for me here than at Diagon." He squinted up at her. "What did you mean, when you said earlier, about Flint and his father?"

She arched an elegant brow at him. "You mean to tell me that you don't know? That should make things very interesting between the two of you," she murmured. "Come along then, I'll take you to our Lord and explain along the way." She paused briefly and pursed her lips at the sight of MacNair, who'd just managed to climb back to his feet. "Are you able to stand guard?" she demanded imperiously. "Or should I get another one of our own here to aid you?"

MacNair's nostrils flared at the question, but he still nodded. "I would…appreciate the support," he said, sounding as if the words were being torn out of him with nails.

Mrs. Malfoy nodded, satisfied. "One of the Carrow siblings should be around," she said. "I'll send them along. Come, Potter." She swept out the atrium and Harry, having no desire to be left alone with a seething MacNair, followed hurriedly.

"I was surprised," he muttered, "that MacNair would take your offer. I would have thought his pride-"

"He lost his pride when he lost his head," Mrs. Malfoy interrupted derisively. "If he'd said he could have handled it I would have cursed him again." They slowed at the sight of another figure at the end of the hallway. "Carrow?" she called.

The figure jerked its head up.

"I am escorting Potter to the Department of Mysteries," Mrs. Malfoy announced. "MacNair will need someone to back him up at the atrium."

The figure nodded and swept past them, never once removing its hood.

"How mysterious," he remarked.

"Not particularly," she dismissed. "The Carrows like to do that; they are a brother and sister, identical twins, after all. They dislike being separated and even when their hoods are lowered we usually still have difficulty telling which one from the other. It suffices that they both answer to the family name."

They walked a little longer until they reached the main elevator lobby. "What were you saying earlier, about Flint and his father?" Harry asked again.

"I am curious, though," Mrs. Malfoy said instead, "since Flint usually has such good control. But around you, I can imagine he might have lost a little bit of it. Have you ever felt him, then?"

He blinked, her words sounding familiar.

"There- there's something about Flint, when he draws near me. I don't really know how to put a word to it, except that he makes it awfully hard to think when he's about," he admitted.

Mrs. Malfoy smiled, appearing smug. "I knew he wouldn't be able to control himself around you," she preened. "Well-trained or not, a teenage boy's main source of intellect is still his hormones. Let's try and see Draco argue with me again if even the Heir cannot control himself."

He couldn't help snorting at that. "Mal- I mean Draco- he argues with you? About your decisions? And what's this about Flint being well-trained?" he asked.

"Oh, yes," Mrs. Malfoy hummed, "Draco argues with me constantly. He insists he knows what he's doing and wants to be more involved with our Lord's work. But of all the children only Flint is an active participant, and that is only because he's had the training he's had, and has already graduated from Hogwarts."

Harry rolled his shoulders. "At least that's one part of Draco that hasn't changed, then," he remarked, then swore as he abruptly remembered who he was speaking to. "Oh, shit, Mrs. Malfoy, I didn't mean-"

She laughed just as a bell chimed, signalling the elevator's arrival. "No, you meant it, every word truly," she said, and indicated for him to enter the elevator before her. "And it is the truth. However Draco has many masks and the very least of them is the one he is most known for." She entered the elevator after him and pressed the button for the very last floor, before stepping back and allowing the doors to close on their own.

Harry thought about it a little before answering. "That's pretty smart, then. You'd always be underestimated…it's how I was surprised when Flint first approached me. He was nothing like what I remembered from school."

"Well, I find him hardly changed," Mrs. Malfoy said loftily, and laughed when he tried to temper his glare to a polite level. "The Flints have a family trait of mind magics, Potter," she explained. "The Heir in particular- he is empathic. I trust you can see how valuable such a skill would be in a fight." She eyed him critically as if he'd argue.

Hardly! Empathic! He hadn't known, although now to think back on it, it was frankly quite obvious. But if Flint was empathic, then did that mean-

As if she knew what he was thinking, Mrs. Malfoy continued to speak. "But like I said, the Heir has been exceedingly well-trained. His father, after all, is a telepath. Because these are traits, there is very little that can keep them out. Regular Occlumency does nothing to dampen their effect. It's why they've had to undergo such rigorous training since young. The amount of information they absorb via their traits is enormous. If they don't learn to control their traits as a child they could very easily be driven insane. The Heir has been warned never to let his shields slide outside of enemy combat. But apparently he has broken his own rules for you." Oddly enough, Mrs. Malfoy looked delighted at that.

"Won't he be punished, then?" Harry asked tentatively. "If people find out he's been getting sloppy."

Mrs. Malfoy chuckled at his question. Harry hadn't thought a woman of her stature could have been so open, but Mrs. Malfoy didn't seem to care. "It only goes to show that not even the Heir is invulnerable, and no, he won't be punished. You should have seen his father when he was courting his mother; everyone within a ten metre radius had to either scatter or resign themselves to procreating with the nearest candidate." She laughed outright at the look on his face. "Yes, we learnt rather soon enough. That was before our Lord took Marcellus (1) aside and spoke to him quite thoroughly. Compared to his father, the Heir has been most discrete."

"I'll say," he muttered, whistling lowly.

Mrs. Malfoy was looking fondly at him. "When a Flint falls, they fall hard," she murmured. "The children play, they all do, but it is not our way to become so involved if we are not serious. The Heir's affections for you are hardly unfeigned. He would not let himself go this way otherwise. Usually when he wants something he never plays fair. But he wants you to choose him. He wants you to have that choice."

The elevator doors opened to a bitter twist of his mouth. "It doesn't matter when he could take that choice from me anytime he wanted to," Harry retorted, stepping out.

"He would do that with anyone lesser," Mrs. Malfoy conceded lightly as she followed him. "However, given the tales of your resistance to the Imperius Curse, I dare say you'd give him quite the fight. That, perhaps, is what drew him to you in the first place. Brunhild (2), as well, could ignore Marcellus when everyone was just about falling over themselves to please him. To persons who could have anyone they want, it is those that show resistance that make the chase worthwhile."

Mrs. Malfoy had given him plenty of food for thought, and he turned her words over in his head as she led him through hallway after hallway and corridor after corridor. He shuddered at the contents of some of the chambers they passed; there was one entirely full of brains in bell jars. Another one held hourglasses of all shapes and sizes; he recognised the time-turners for what they were. Yet another held only a single fluttering shroud, which was curious since there wasn't a window in that chamber. He paused outside and frowned, leaning forward to hear the whispers calling to him. Mrs. Malfoy, when she saw he had stopped, turned even paler and yanked him toward her, hard. The whispers were dispelled as he stumbled and he was surprised by the thin, compressed line of her lips.

"Do not ever linger near that," she ordered tersely. "That Veil is Death."

He shuddered at her words and hurried along behind her.

The last hall they came too was lined with hundreds of shelves, all of them holding similar foggy crystals. Harry frowned again. "Was this what Flint meant, then, when he said I might get to see a pretty bauble or two?" he asked. "I thought he was just pulling my leg then, but-"

She nodded. "Yes, the Heir would have known. It is very difficult to keep anything from a Flint, but just as equally difficult to pry anything from them. They make most valuable members of our order."

Mrs. Malfoy appeared to have a very good idea of just where they were going, although Harry didn't have the foggiest. All the rows looked exactly the same. There were numbers on the crystals, but the numbers ran up to the thousands and one was hardly different from the next. He gave up trying to keep track of the numbers are #1, 528 and just let her lead.

After a few more twists and turns they happened upon another small group of dark-robed wizards. Harry spotted a familiar platinum-blond mane, and a shorter, slimmer figure right in the middle.

"My Lord," Mrs. Malfoy called. "The Flint Heir sent Potter over from Diagon Alley."

Voldemort turned, the beginnings of a frown on his youthful face. "What the devil were you doing there?" he asked, sounding strangely normal, if a little irritated. "Didn't Marcus tell you to stay out of it?"

He fidgeted nervously. "He may have said something to that effect," he admitted. "The bloody Weasleys were making so much damn noise, though, so I just went along to get them to shut up."

Beside Voldemort, Lucius snorted from behind his mask. "Weasleys," he said derisively.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Come off it, Mr. Malfoy," he retorted. "Any git with two brain cells to rub together is going to know it's you behind that mask. How many English wizards have platinum blond hair and carry their wands secreted in eagle-headed canes?"

A murmur of laughter ruffled the solemn-coloured crowd, and Lucius scowled beneath his mask. "Impertinent prat," he muttered, but there was no ire to his words.

"What brings you lot here, then?" Harry asked, slipping his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels.

A sly smile grew on Voldemort's face, and he nodded at the shelf just above his head. If Harry stretched up on tiptoe, he would just be able to reach the crystal which the Dark Lord indicated. "That," Voldemort said, "although you might as well make yourself useful now that you're here, Potter. Go on, then, fetch."

Voldemort was outright grinning at the last. Harry scowled, but did as he was told. Another round of sniggers went round the gathered Death Eaters when he had to scrabble a bit to reach, but he managed to snatch it down in the end.

"So?" he asked, hefting it up and down like he would a quaffle. "What is it?" He had to dodge when Barty Crouch lunged for him. "Hey!" he exclaimed, barely managing to hold on to it. "Watch it, would you!"

"You watch it!" Barty snarled back. "You better not drop that, Potter, or-"

"No, you should drop it," Voldemort said, smiling lazily. Most of the Death Eater's snapped their heads about so quick they could have gotten whiplash. Harry was stunned by their unexpected response. It was obvious the Death Eaters had had very different ideas over the import of the crystal. "I've had my suspicions about what's in that orb for a while, now. Go on then, Potter. Drop it."

"What is it first?" he asked suspiciously. He remembered the brains in the bell-jars and doubted those things would take very well to being dropped. He wanted some kind of assurance that this fog wouldn't react the same way.

Thankfully Voldemort seemed amused by his suspicion than angered. "It's a prophecy orb, and it's nothing harmless, just smoke and words, really. Go on, Potter. Drop it. Let it break."

Still frowning, Harry did so.

The largeness of the hall swallowed up the sound of the crystal breaking. The fog gathered itself up into a vague countenance, before dissipating with a hiss. The broken shards of the crystal dissolved into liquid and evaporated. Within moments there was no sign at all that it had ever been there.

Harry squinted at where the fog had formed into a face for a brief moment. If he didn't know any better, he would have thought that was-

"Trelawney?" he asked. "Was that- was that Sybil Trelawney, the Hogwarts Divination Professor? Does that mean she made another genuine prophecy, then? Was that what we were we supposed to hear?"

Lucius rolled his eyes at his words. "Trelawney always was a batty little bint," he sneered. "She was a few years under me at Hogwarts, and had a reputation for being even loonier than Lovegood, without Lovegood's intelligence."

"I did hear her make a true prophecy before," Harry reasoned. "It was about Pettigrew joining you during Third Year," he added this last bit to Voldemort. "But she spends the rest of the time thinking up bloodier and more violent ways for me to die," he concluded dryly.

Voldemort hardly seemed perturbed by that. "If any of them are particularly creative-"

"Hey!" he exclaimed. "I thought we were over that already!"

Voldemort chuckled softly. "I did not say it was for you," he said, spreading his hands expansively. "I am just open to suggestions, that's all."

Harry wrinkled his nose at him. "Well, whatever. So what was that all about? You don't mean this was what you had Flint blow up half of Diagon Alley for?"

The slip of a Dark Lord smiled. "Flint and some others," he agreed. "I just wanted to verify something." He turned about to walk the way he and Mrs. Malfoy had come in, and gestured for Harry to fall in with him. "Tell me, Potter, what do you know about prophecies?"

"That they're a load of crock," he shot back immediately, and then flushed. "That was what Flint said, actually. But there was that one prophecy that came true during Third-Year."

Voldemort looked down dispassionately at where the broken crystal had been on the floor. "That would have been another one right there," he said, nudging the ground with his foot, "had we let it continue. _The one with the power to defeat the Dark Lord rises, born at the end of the seventh month; neither shall live while the other survives…"_

He stared at the Dark Lord in shock. "Are you- is that really what it said?" He began to remember the inklings of an old conversation with Flint, about prophecies and codswallop and its far-reaching effects.

Voldemort glanced sideways at him. "So my suspicions were correct. Dumbledore told you nothing. My guess is that he wanted to see how much you would infer on your own. That, and it was likely he could not be bothered when you seemed to blunder so well on your own." A small smile quirked at his lips, and it was not kind. "After all, your _sheer dumb luck _has brought you this far."

Harry started at the familiar phrase. "How did you- ah. Quirrell," he murmured. He bowed his head and shifted uncomfortably on his feet. He had no idea what to do now.

"Come along then," Voldemort said breezily. "It's time for us to go. Narcissa, be a love and conjure us a prophecy orb, would you, and we'll leave without any of them the wiser."

He watched as Mrs. Malfoy conjured an exact replica of the orb he'd just shattered, right up to the tags (S.B.T. to. A.P.W.B.D.?).

"They'll probably be watching you more closely now that you've gone missing twice, and no one has been able to find you either time, but try to come out to the Rue Morgue again if you can. There are still things that need to be done, and preferably before you return to Hogwarts for the start of term," Voldemort remarked as the group of them retraced their way back to the Ministry Atrium. Harry noticed more cloaks peeling out of shadows to join them, but as the Dark Lord said nothing at their growing party, he kept his views to himself, too. "There is not much time left. Marcus told you about the blocks placed on your magic, didn't he?"

Voldemort waited for him to nod his acknowledgment before he continued. "Good. At least you're not going into this blind. Don't try to undo the blocks without any of us present, not that you'll know how. Now that the matter's been brought up though, you'll probably start to be able to feel them. Whatever you do, don't scratch at the bindings. There are proper rituals that should be conducted with the releasing of such bindings, and if you simply used brute force to tear them off, there's a good chance you'd be tearing off a large chunk of your core, too, that you're never going to be able to regenerate back.

"Unfortunately we don't have the time to deal with that at the moment, which is why you'll have to come down again. Middleton has a few ritual chambers that we can use- and don't worry," the illusion of a teenager drawled, rolling his eyes as he flawlessly predicted what was going through his head. "We won't be unearthing any old corpses or chopping off any limbs for this ritual." Harry scowled at the intended reprimand.

"What if…what if there was someone I trusted who could oversee this?" he asked.

"Who could _you_ possibly trust?" Lucius asked rather rudely. Harry frowned, a little cross.

"You shouldn't interrupt when your betters are speaking," he said, and to his surprise, both Voldemort and Mrs. Malfoy broke out into laughter. Lucius merely scowled. "And I meant Sirius. Sirius Black, my godfather."

Mrs. Malfoy frowned. "Given his relations with his mother, my aunt, I doubt he would ever be sympathetic towards us."

"He doesn't trust you; he trusts me," Harry clarified boldly. "I told him that you'll aren't advocating the same types of beliefs she upheld. He's willing to give me the benefit of the doubt on that. Besides, he's a lot quicker than you give him credit for. He grew up with Walburga Black as his mother trying to beat the bloody pogrom into his head. I'm willing to bet he knows much more about the Dark than he lets on."

Voldemort pondered his words thoughtfully. "Very well," he hummed, "if you think it wise. I suppose the Black manor would have already sufficient chambers for you to conduct the ritual in." They entered back into the elevator, and the small space automatically resized to comfortably fit them all. Then Voldemort smirked. "Although I would let Marcus know of your decision. He doesn't take to surprises very well."

He looked at Voldemort in surprise. "What's Flint got to do with anything?"

Lucius made an impatient noise. "You're still calling him by his family name?"

He glanced at the Malfoy Lord incredulously. "What else would I be calling him?"

"He does have a given name, you know," Lucius said pointedly.

Harry shrugged. "It's not like I know him very well."

"Not like you know him-" Lucius just snorted, and Mrs. Malfoy was unsuccessfully trying to hide her smile. "I give up."

Harry gave the Malfoys a bit of a leery look. Odd couple, there. No wonder how the two of them turned out someone like Draco. He caught Voldemort looking at him in obvious amusement, and wondered just what it was about Marcus Flint that everyone thought was so funny.

They were entering the atrium again, and hadn't once come across another soul that wasn't one of Voldemort's. Harry spotted the figure that Mrs. Malfoy had called 'Carrow' earlier, and it detached from its corner and made its way to another identical cloaked figure. The Carrow siblings were obviously taking this twin thing seriously, a lot like a much less humorous, more murderous version of Fred and George, he supposed. MacNair looked like he'd mostly recovered, although he faintly flinched when Mrs. Malfoy swept her haughty stare his way.

"Go on then," Voldemort urged, "get on with you. They'll be looking for you- again, and the attack's about over. There's a Floo grate near the Emporium that you can use."

"All right," he said. He had to agree with Flint; coming to the Ministry was a heck of a lot safer than having remained at Diagon. "I'll just be seeing you, then." How strange, he wondered, to be bidding the Dark Lord farewell as if they'd just had afternoon tea.

"And remember," Voldemort added, "if you really do want to use Black to break your bindings, remind to get him an Anchor!"

Harry couldn't make head or tail of the words, but there wasn't much time left. He just nodded, took a handful of Floo powder, and flung it into the waiting grate. "Eeylop's Owl Emporium!"

* * *

><p>Diagon was a mess when he found his way back to the main street again. Pads was the one who found him first, bounding nimbly up to him and herding him along, making small growling noises that could have been canine scoldings. There was still some fighting going on in the corners, but it was largely over. There were a lot less screaming people and bodies than he was used to, which he was grateful for, at least. He made sure to walk into a couple of walls and smudge some dirt over his skin before he came face-to-face with the rest of the Order.<p>

"Wotcher, Harry!" This time it was Tonks that saw him first. "You okay? We were worried when we couldn't find you!" She gazed down at him with her large purple eyes, the concern shining clear and bright. "You're not hurt, are you? When we couldn't find you though we just hoped you'd managed to get away. You're just a kid," she huffed. "You shouldn't be involved in the fighting anyhow."

Another time he might have resented her overprotective tendencies, but he guessed she was watching out for him in her own way.

"Yeah, I figured," he agreed slowly. "After what happened at Privet Drive- I wasn't going to chance it again."

She smiled at him. "Wotcher! Good on you, Harry!"

Lupin came up next, and there was equal parts worry and equal parts sadness in his eyes. "Are you all right, Harry?" He shrugged noncommittally instead, his hand going to Padfoot's ruff. The big black dog nosed his hip in encouragement.

"He's fine," Tonks answered for him. "Harry's a smart lad; he managed to duck out of all of it. And a good thing too! This is still Diagon, but imagine if he got another letter from the Ministry! I don't think Fudge'd be kind enough to let him go twice! We're still trying to figure how his case got dismissed the last time. The only one we can think of that's got enough clout to move Fudge is Malfoy, but like that's possible." She morphed herself a pig noise and snorted, and her hair turned aquamarine. Harry couldn't help but grin at her.

"Harry!"

He turned, and controlled a cringe when he saw the flurry of redheads descend, led by Ginny. Poor Neville was being dragged along by an iron grip on the Weasley matron, wearing an appropriate and probably unfeigned look of terror. He was willing to bet that terror was more directed at the woman latching onto his arm than the destruction about them. The poor kid really seemed to have shitty luck when it came to the older women in his life. Thankfully, Padfoot seemed to get his sentiment and stood between him and the lot of them, making sure they'd have to trip over him to get to him. Harry bowed his head as if shyness, hiding a grin.

"Where were you?" Ginny asked breathlessly, arms outstretched as if to hug him. He quickly shrunk back, making sure to keep Pads in between them, and pretended not to see the hurt on her face. "We were half-afraid they'd gotten you when we turned around and you weren't there anymore."

He shrugged, bending down to scratch Padfoot's ears. "I ducked out. Figured I'd leave the mess for experts this time."

He didn't have to be watching them to know how they were gaping at him.

"Ha-Harry, c'mon, mate," Ron tried, "you know you can take them! You know it's probably just Malfoy, the amazing bouncing ferret hiding behind the masks, right?"

He looked up then, eyes steely as he said, "Yeah, maybe, but the last time I tried to do things on my own, Cedric _died, _all right? I figured I'd do the smart thing for once, and I'm not ending up with another mark on my record just because someone tried to frame me again for using my wand."

Hermione blinked, taken aback. "That…that's really sensible of you, Harry," she conceded.

Harry rolled his eyes at her clear reluctance. "Yeah, well, thanks," he muttered.

Ron was just looking at them both as if they'd gone off their rocker. "Hermione," he said, aghast, "you can't be serious! He's Harry Potter!"

"I know who I am, thanks," he cut in, a little annoyed.

Ron turned to him, eyes frantic. "Exactly! You're _supposed _to defeat You-Know-Who!"

"Who, Voldemort?" he asked on purpose, just to see the redheads flinch. "Look, it's well and good that the wizarding world treats me like some sort of hero for having a scar on my forehead." He rolled his eyes at that. "But honestly, the only benefit I can think of of being Harry Potter is being able to speak Parseltongue, and look where that's got me so far! I certainly don't have more power, although I guess I've got a pretty damn good lucky streak. Considering I've come head-to-head with that madman four times already, and I'm still alive- well, that's the only extraordinary thing about me I can think of."

He looked at them all wide-eyed, although he noticed how Mad-Eye's real eye narrowed at his mention of _power_. "What, you weren't thinking I was going to be able to do it again, were you?" He huffed. "I'm kind of short one sacrificial mother, you know," he added cruelly, just to see Lupin wince. Padfoot whined, too, and he sighed, relenting. He sank down onto his haunches and let the large canine bowl him over. "I'm sorry, Pads, I didn't mean to," he murmured into Padfoot's ears. He glared up at the crowd of Order members staring down at him in astonishment.

"Look, I don't get why you'll are looking at me for answers," he said plaintively. "If anyone's got them, it's Dumbledore. He's the one Voldemort's always been afraid of, isn't he? So why isn't he doing anything about it?"

He was watching closely as some of the Aurors shifted guiltily where they stood, and glanced at each other with open worry. Hermione seemed to be seriously considering the sense of his words though, and he wondered about what Draco had said about Muggleborns not having had enough _training_ like the rest of the Lightsiders had.

"I'm not trying to shift the responsibility or any of that," he continued plaintively, "because for all we know, Voldemort thinks it's _my_ fault for screwing up his plan for world domination as a baby, and he's all hell-bent on seeing me dead. Which is probably why this attack happened today and why I should have never left Grimmauld, seeing as how nothing good ever happens when I'm around," he threw in. "I'm more than willing to act as bait and all that. But I just think dealing with Voldemort should be left to someone a little more qualified than, well, _me." _

Tonks smiled weakly. "Wotcher at that, Harry." Maybe he'd gotten through to her, a little bit. But he wouldn't put all his eggs in a basket, not yet.

"We should head back to Headquarters before the Ministry decides to drag any of _us _down for questioning," Lupin said in the first sensible thing mentioned by any Order member (besides Tonks) all day. They made their way over to the entrance over by the Leaky Cauldron, with Hermione lost in thought while Ron and Ginny were throwing him worried looks when they thought he wasn't looking. Padfoot was always underfoot though, so they couldn't get close, which he was thankful for even if it meant tripping over a dog-body half the time.

As Tonks held out her hand for him to Side-Apparate with, Harry suddenly remembered his agreement with Voldemort to tell Flint about his decision to have Sirius help break the bindings on his magic. He supposed he'd better ask if someone like Dumbledore would be able to tell, too, if the bindings had been broken. He wondered just what about the situation had so tickled the Malfoys. Odd, that. Harry guessed he'd just have to tell Flint and find out later for himself.

* * *

><p>(1) - Roman praenomen that was probably derived from the Roman god Mars.<p>

(2) - derived from the Germanic elements _brun _"armour, protection" and _hild _"battle". It's a cognate with the Old Norse name _Brynhildr _(from _brynja _and _hildr). _In the Norse legend 'Volsungasaga' Brynhildr was the queen of the Valkyries rescued by the hero Sigurd. In the Germanic saga 'Nibelungenlied' she was a queen of Iceland and the wife of Günther. Both characters were probably inspired by 6th century Frankish queen Brunhilda, of Visigothic birth.

* * *

><p>So that's the Flints' big bad secret (o: Now aren't you lot dying to see what questions Harry's going to have for Marcus this time they meet?<p>

Thanks for reading, and do review. Cheers.


	7. Chapter 7

**Anybody's Hero  
><strong>

Rating: M

Summary: At the Wizengamot, Harry finds himself having a battle of wits with a very different opponent instead: Marcus Flint. Warnings for slash. Marcus/Harry.

For my 300th reviewer from **To Bedlam and Partway Back** , Lone-Angel-1992. I'm so sorry it took a whole bleeding year. But thanks ever so much for believing I'd come out with it in the end (o:

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, nor the lyrics of the Morrissey song the title comes from.

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><p><span>Chapter Seven<span>

_Meet at Barnard Park at 11p.m. _was all the message written on the parchment. Harry pouted at its abruptness. Especially after he'd gone and spent the rest of the afternoon writing out a whole long slew of reasons of why he'd decided to do the ritual with Sirius instead.

Then he sighed. He'd have to find some way of sneaking out to meet Flint. He really needed to find out what this ritual was all about though. He was honestly hoping Voldemort was serious about not needing any powdered bone or hacked-off limbs; he didn't quite have any spares lying around. If he waited too long it would mean having to sneak out of Hogwarts, which would be more difficult now than ever.

Harry cast 'Evanesco' on the parchment and folded it, stowing it back inside his trouser pocket, and strode off to find Sirius. His dogfather'd probably be up in the attic, grooming Buckbeak. The hippogriff had never looked more handsome, but he'd taken this opportunity to get more temperamental, too. He didn't stand for anyone other than himself and Sirius now, which made it woe for those who tried to join in on their conversations. It made things all the better for dogfather and pup, though, so Harry certainly wasn't complaining, and if anyone knew how to get past the damned wards it would be Sirius.

He dodged Ginny on the second landing, ducking into Regulus's old room when she emerged from the one she shared with Hermione. While he was inside, he took a quick glance around. Harry'd never really been into any of the other Black bedrooms apart from his own, Sirius's, and the twins', and he'd heard Regulus's room had been untouched since his death. It certainly looked like it. There were signs all over that a child had once lived there, with no signs at all of that child having ever grown up. There was something stuffy and stale about the air in Regulus's room, and Harry chalked it up to it having never been aired. Merlin knew Kreacher could never be convinced into 'disturbing the sanctity' of Regulus's room. Once Ginny's footsteps sounded past, he slipped back out and shut the door behind him.

Sirius was right where he thought he'd be, lounging across Buckbeak's back drowsily. The two of them glanced up when the door opened, and then as one their heads slumped down again, as if they were saying, _oh, you again. _Buckbeak didn't even bother with bowing anymore when he saw either of them.

"Hey, Sirius," he called out softly. His godfather's head lifted slightly, which was the only outward sign he had that Sirius was listening. "Do you…do you think you could help me sneak out tonight? I need to be at Barnard Park at eleven."

The man hauled himself upright slowly and painstakingly, and the grey eyes he nailed him with were pensive.

"That boy this morning was a Flint, wasn't he?" Sirius asked, not answering his first question.

Harry nodded cautiously.

"I thought so," Sirius muttered. "Blood breeds true here. He looks exactly like his father."

"I heard they were a lot alike," Harry volunteered.

Sirius eyed him. "I didn't know Marcellus Flint well back at Hogwarts. He was in his Fifth-Year when I was in my First, and he was in Slytherin. But then again, Bellatrix didn't like him, although Narcissa seemed to get along with him fine."

"I don't think Bellatrix likes anyone, even her husband," he muttered.

Sirius barked out a laugh. "That's certainly true." Then his eyes sharpened. "Although I hope you don't know that from firsthand experience," he said, a bit of a point to his voice. "But Flint's son- you sure you know what you're doing, pup? And- you said he just- just came up to you?"

"He was the one that got me out of the Wizengamot, and had them drop my case," he confessed lowly. "He probably worked in tandem with Lucius Malfoy somehow."

"There was always something else about them," Sirius conceded. "Flint was never as flashy as, say, the Blacks or the Malfoys, but everyone was warned to steer clear of them all the same."

"There is something about them," Harry agreed. Sirius waited to see if he would add anything, but he didn't. Flint's empathy wasn't his story to tell, he decided, and he'd wait to hear it from the older boy's mouth if he'd ever think of blabbing it around. "So?" he continued. "Do you think I could get a hand sneaking out of here? _Is _there a way to get out of here?" He made a show of peering at the walls.

Sirius sighed. "I know every nook and cranny of this damn house," he admitted, "every gap in the wards. I had to, when I needed to leave. It got too much for me to handle a lot of the time and I needed a safe way out, without Mother ever knowing I'd left. I'd get my hide tanned otherwise. She used to do that without magic, and she enjoyed it even."

Harry didn't have to fake a shudder. Walburga Black sounded far too much like Vernon Dursley for his liking.

"In some ways Regulus got it worse, though," his godfather continued softly, as if in a daze. "Mother would never beat her _dearest Regulus," _he sneered, "but he was always somewhat...softer. If he'd been left to his own devices, and not forced to hide so much of himself from our mother, I suspect he would have ended up in Ravenclaw, or Hufflepuff. He was far kinder than the hand Fate dealt him."

Harry didn't know what to say. He didn't want to interrupt the memories Sirius appeared to be lost in. Being trapped in this house had brought out a whole other side to the man, not one that was wholly pleasant, but one that, while fallible, was real.

"I can help sneak you out," Sirius finally said, shaking his head to clear the remnants of his fugue, "but you've got to be back before dawn. _And_," he continued, before Harry could get too excited, "you'll be carrying a two-way mirror with you, just in case of anything. You'll call me once when you reach Barnard and again when Flint meets you, and one more time when you're on the way back. The git better walk you back since he's properly courting you."

Harry frowned at that last bit. "I don't think he is," he said. "I mean, I did say we sort of fell into things, but I think I've just tickled his fancy, honestly. I mean, he did ask Voldemort about it before going ahead with things, but I-I heard from- from someone, that Flints liked strong-willed types. And since I can resist the Imperius-" He shrugged, slotting his hands back into his pockets.

Sirius studied him keenly. "Tickled his fancy," he snorted, "I don't think that's true," he said at last. "We were all brought up the same way, in the old custom- too sensible to be chasing skirts- or lifting shirts, in this case. If we were at the marriageable age, at least," he added, looking slightly uncomfortable. "As it is, he's risked a lot just to get this close to you, pup. If what you've said is true, and he's petitioned even Voldemort to get involved with you- I'd say it's very, very serious." He rocked back on his heels. "So, how do you feel about that?"

He was rather stumped, actually, and said as much.

Sirius laughed. Harry looked affronted. Sirius laughed even harder. "I'm trying!" he said through the chortles, "I'm really trying to be Sirius here!"

"I think I'd rather hear it from Flint himself, if you don't mind," he replied stiltedly. He looked a little harder at his dogfather, still smiling back at him. It had been close to two years now that he'd left Azkaban, and yet very little about him had changed. While Sirius had gotten a tan last year as a dog traipsing about Hogsmeade during the Triwizard Tournament, this year it looked like his skin hadn't seen the sun once. While he'd cut his hair last year, in the time since it'd grown out again, curling into faint waves to his shoulders. The jet of his hair cast the bleached ivory of his skin into start contrast and it made him look gaunt. He hadn't put on any weight at all, despite the tales he'd heard about Mrs. Weasley making an effort to come over every morning and make breakfast for all the Order members. Even Lupin looked better than he did, which was really saying a lot.

"It's that bad then, for you, being back here," he remarked.

Sirius gave him a sickly smile. "Once I would've thought anywhere would've been better than Azkaban. Now…now I'm not so sure anymore. At least in Azkaban I could've retreated into Padfoot, and that would've made things bearable, at least for a little while. Here, no matter where I go, no matter what form I take, there's always a ghost waiting round the corner."

The man looked absolutely haunted by the end of that little speech, and Harry didn't feel like he had the right to press him.

"I'll ask Flint about Pettigrew," he said. "I can't see how that miserable cretin fits in with anyone's plans, let alone Voldemort's right now. Actually, it should've been the first thing I asked after," he admitted shamefacedly. "I'm sorry, Sirius."

Sirius shook his head, his sickly smile melding into something a little softer, and a little more natural. "It's fine," he said. "Besides, I'd rather you get yourself out first. I can look after myself, Harry. It's us adults that should've been taking care of you; you shouldn't be wearing yourself out the other way around."

Harry bit his lip to keep from saying anything more, because it was obvious Sirius had made him his priority. It only served to bevy up the guilt he felt about forgetting about Pettigrew entirely, and he firmly reminded himself to ask after the bloody rat this time around.

His godfather wasn't kidding when he said he knew every nook and cranny about Grimmauld Place. They snuck across the manor to his childhood room, ducking into cubbyholes and corners he never knew even existed whenever an Order member their way came. Sirius's old bedroom had been left to Charlie now that his godfather had taken the master bedroom with great reluctance at the beginning of this year. The second oldest Weasley scion obviously hadn't had much time to unpack, given by the way the bed lay untouched and his twin leather satchels were sprawled on the ground, buckles still latched on tight.

If Charlie had come by International Portkey, or Apparition, he might not have been as burnt out as he would be if he'd flown, but travel was still travel, no matter what form it took. Harry felt a touch of guilt at having caused the older boy to scramble all over the place without any chance for rest.

Sirius went straight to the window, and cracked it open. "Had to make sure Charlie got my old room, not Billy-boy," he explained grinning. "Our resident curse-breaker would have noticed the wards weren't quite right here immediately. There, look." Harry bent over at where the man pointed, and saw a long line of runes carved into the wooden sill, small and neat and utterly unlike everything Sirius was. As though he knew hat he was thinking, Sirius bared his teeth in a wide-mouthed grin. "I know, right? Don't ever show McGonagall this, either. She was always complaining about how bad my handwriting was in her class. She never knew I made it especially bad, just for her." He winked, and Harry laughed.

"So, you see these runes? That old witch was pretty stringent with the wards, which meant they set off if any kind of Light Magic was ever done in these walls." Sirius rolled his eyes, showing what he thought of Walburga Black's ideas. "That meant I had two ways to circumvent them: by using either Neutral runes, or runes that were even Darker than the wards."

"Of course you had to use the Darker runes, though, since Neutral runes have only a passive effect. They're good for hearth and house-warming and little else," came Charlie Weasley's thoughtful hum from above him. Harry whirled about, startled. He hadn't even noticed when the redhead had come in. Beside him, Sirius's crazed eyes told him his godfather hadn't noticed either.

Charlie smiled with a wry little twist of his mouth, thick arms folded firmly over his broad shoulders. "I might not be a curse-breaker like my brother, but he's taught me a few things over the years. And runes are a pretty handy thing to know when it comes to warding dragon pens."

Harry straightened, making sure to keep himself between Sirius and Charlie. He'd be the most useless if a fight broke out among the three of them. This way, at least, if Charlie was from the Order he wouldn't dare cast anything lethal in his direction.

The redhead seemed to recognise what he was doing, and grinned ruefully. "Relax a little, would you? When I was in school, although we kept it under wraps, I was seeing Stephen Nott (1)- I think he's got a younger brother in Ron's year? He was fit as hell, and we were going together for nearly two years, although we didn't make it in the end. We honestly tried, we really did, but-" Charlie bit his words off and looked away, a faint grimace tainting his open features. He shrugged it off and tried to smile. "Could you see me bringing a Nott home for Christmas brunch, let alone the firstborn and heir apparent? Mum would've gone completely spare, and not just because I would've taken his name. Right brilliant shag, though," he remembered fondly, although the sadness hadn't completely gone. "I hope he still says the same thing about me."

Harry goggled at him. He remembered seeing Theodore Nott- Stephen Nott's little brother, he guessed, flirting with Parvati at the safehouse in Rue Morgue. He couldn't imagine an older version of him doing the same with _Charlie Weasley._

"Now," the redhead continued, and he jerked to attention again, "I told you that for two reasons. One was to show you I'm not telling on you mates for the use of Dark runes, because frankly, Sirius, I _get it_ since you were actually living in this bloody house, so for the love of Merlin, stop whispering hexes at me under your breath now, would you?"

Behind him, his godfather straightened, his face a little flush. Charlie's grin widened. "And the second was that I think I know why you're sneaking out. Harry, you've got a bird, haven't you? It's why you've been running havoc over the past few weeks or so and driving everyone in the house mental. A bird, and she's Dark, isn't she?"

Harry squinted perceptively at him. "You're really okay with this, aren't you?" he asked, hesitantly.

Charlie shrugged. "Hey, you're a teenager; you've got hormones, and it's about time, honestly. I'd be a little more worried if you didn't go crazy sooner or later. And yeah, maybe you're a little more at risk than others are, 'cause of that title of yours, but you've got a good head about your shoulders." He quirked a small smile. "Those instincts of yours saved my baby sister back in her First-Year. A lot of people forget that, but I haven't, not when you haven't stopped saving people since. I think if you trust your bird…then I can, too."

Harry bit his lip. He hadn't had very many people trust him first thing based on his instincts alone. It was usually such an uphill battle, against Ron's jealousy and Hermione's faith in absolute authority. "Thank you," he said, softly.

"No," Charlie said, "thank _you." _He directed his grin at Sirius this time. "Go on then. I'm pretty interested too."

"If word gets out about this," Sirius said, quite seriously, "I'm going to kill you."

"Sirius!" he hissed.

"I'm serious," the man said.

"I know," Charlie said, smiling sadly.

Sirius nodded once, almost in reassurance, before taking a deep breath and delving back to his explanation. "The sill," he said, "those runes. Charlie was right about them being Darker than the wards. For all her crazy ideas, Mother was never very goodwith magic and only managed to get the basic castings down right. Everything else was a bastardisation, and runes have to be pure for their fullest effect. That's why it was so easy for old Billy-boy to get the wards against Light Magic down, I think. I might've been able to manage that by Sixth-Year, but I didn't give a rat's arse by then. I'd left the house before that year even ended.

"The only other that knew about them was my brother, Regulus. I needed an Anchor in him to have these writ; I'd be madder than me old mam without him." He cleared his throat, looking away as he was wont to do at any mention of his brother, before continuing. "These runes have sheared a one-way hole through them. Getting out's no big deal, but to get back in you've got to make your way up to this window and press the seam on this sill to release them. Make bloody damn sure you don't use any magic getting up here, else that'll set the wards off too."

Charlie nodded his understanding, and then looked to Sirius. "I guess you're staying here to play guard dog?" The older man didn't look to be kidding in the least. "Right, then. I'll stay with you. I'm sure we can find a way to keep ourselves occupied."

He glanced between them. "So…that's it? I can go now?"

Sirius pulled out a silver-gilded hand mirror. "Not so fast, pup," he countered. "This stays with you, at all times. And remember- _call." _

Harry grinned. "Sure thing. I've got my cloak and wand, too, just in case- thanks, Siri. You too, Charlie."

The redhead shrugged his heavy shoulders, an easy smile on his face. "Sure thing. Just get back safe, yeah?"

He nodded. Sirius lifted the window from the sill, and he stuck his head out, peering down. It was a bit of a long drop, but there was a sturdy looking trellis that should make it an easy enough climb down. "Oh," he realised, "wait a minute!" He found his godfather's worried face immediately in front of his, and couldn't help smiling.

"No, it's all right. It's just something I suddenly remembered, about Anchors and rituals and stuff. Could I come back and talk to you about it later?" he asked.

Sirius's face warmed with pleasure, and from behind his shoulder, Charlie watched the man carefully. "'Course you can, pup."

He grinned back. That was that taken care of, then. If Flint protested he had his godfather's willing participation already, so the older boy could take his protests and very royally shove them up his- "All right then," he said, "I'm going. I'll see you two." He lifted himself up on the sill, and slid his legs out. With that, he was gone.

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><p>(1) from the Greek name <em>Stephanos <em>meaning 'crown'; Saint Stephen is widely regarded as the first Christian martyr

There is action, and then there is _action. _This is a bit of the former; the latter will show up next chapter (o: Thought it'd be good to touch base a bit before we really start delving into things. Thanks for reading, and do review. Cheers.


	8. Chapter 8

**Anybody's Hero**

Rating: M

Summary: At the Wizengamot, Harry finds himself having a battle of wits with a very different opponent instead: Marcus Flint. Warnings for slash. Marcus/Harry.

For my 300th reviewer from **To Bedlam and Partway Back** , Lone-Angel-1992. I'm so sorry it took a whole bleeding year. But thanks ever so much for believing I'd come out with it in the end (o:

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, nor the lyrics of the Morrissey song the title comes from.

**NOTE: WARNINGS FOR UNDERAGE SLASH**

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><p><span>Chapter Eight<span>

Barnard Park was sort of freaky and bleak, really. He hoped they weren't going to stay here to talk it over. Right in the middle of the dead field was a cold, metallic jungle gym that resembled conjoined headstones. He was having far too many flashbacks to the cemetery at Little Hangleton as it was to be comfortable here.

He was seated on a bench under a pine tree, out of sight with his invisibility cloak thrown over him for good measure when Flint showed up. The older boy was dressed most innocuously as a Muggle in a knitted grey henley, slim dark jeans and scuffed black sneakers. In fact, between the two of them he was dressed a little more formally for once, in his trousers, rolled-up shirtsleeves and sweater-vest. It was late summer, and the night was brisk out, and he didn't trust his luck enough. Knowing it he'd probably sneeze at the most inopportune moment, regardless.

"Harry!" Flint hissed out. "Come out, would you? I know you're here."

He pulled his cloak off and slipped it in his pocket, before getting to his feet. He was still behind Flint though, and called out, "Hey."

Flint started at the sound. When he turned and saw him, he just stared down at him for a long moment without saying anything.

"What is it?" He frowned, ruffling his hair aside self-consciously. "Flint?"

Flint shook his head furiously like a wet dog. "Nothing," he said gruffly, "it's fine. But we're not staying here. Come on." He took his hand as if it were natural for him, tracing their fingers together as he led them out of the park, following Copenhagen Street till it branched into Cloudesley, and they stood in front of the Hilton London Islington Hotel on Upper Street. Harry was surprised at the sight of the plainly Muggle building. Flint didn't notice his astonishment; he just seemed all intent on getting them there. It took a firm tug on their linked hands for the older boy to stop.

"We're going in there?" he hissed.

Flint seemed confused by his aversion. "Yeah," he said, "yeah, we are. This way the odds of us running into anyone we know are slim to none."

"O-okay," he stumbled. "I just- I guess I didn't think you were serious when you mentioned about keeping an eye on Muggles." Flint cast him a bit of a doubtful look, but didn't chase it. They made their way to the reception where he hung back and let Flint do the talking.

"I called earlier this evening," the older boy told the woman at the Hilton Honours desk, "reservation for the night. The name is Flint."

The young woman's eye widened briefly, but she controlled any other response she might have made. "Yes, of course, sir, for the King Hilton Deluxe." She nodded at the nearest bellhop. "Kindly escort Mr. Flint and his guest to the room on the far end. If there's anything we can do for you, please let us know."

Flint nodded, giving her a polite, if dismissive smile. "Thank you." He pulled him along, following the bellboy into the elevator to the top floor. He tipped the boy before they entered the room so they could do so in private, and the first thing Flint did was pull out his wand and cast a privacy ward on the room.

Then he turned to him and gripped his shoulders, giving him a little shake and demanded, "What's this about Black?"

Harry jerked himself out of Flint's hold. "Hey!" he snapped. "Step off; would you; what's with that? Sirius is my godfather, of course I'd trust him. I already told- no," he shook his head. "It wasn't you, it was the Malfoys. They didn't think Sirius could handle it either, after his bitch of his mother, but you're all underestimating him, I tell you. He's not _quite _the only one I trust back at Grimmauld, but he's definitely the one I trust the most."

"You're a bloody naïve prat," Flint snarled.

"And you're an overreacting overbearing git!" he snapped. "I didn't _have _to tell you about Sirius. In fact I only decided to mention it because the Malfoys suggested it!"

"Where the hell did you get off about Black in the first place!" Flint shot back, slamming one large heavy hand into the wall beside his head. Harry was so furious he barely even noticed it.

"Piss the fuck off," he growled, "he knew you were involved before you knew he was, _and _he's my godfather. So if anyone gets off claiming seniority it sure as hell is him! Besides, I want Petttigrew for him from your Lord- the rat can't have a single honest use anywhere. Sirius deserves to be able to get out of his own damn house- shit, I was meant to have called him the moment I got here-" He turned about and scrambled for the mirror Sirius had given him, not seeing the seething look Flint shot him.

He finally managed to pull it out and grinned, tapping at its surface to activate it. "Sirius-"

He never saw it coming. Flint just ripped the mirror from his hand and flung it across the room, causing it to shatter.

"What the _fuck-"_

The broken pieces of the mirror were still glowing, and Harry would have gotten to them if Flint hadn't grabbed him about the waist. "Get _off _me, you bloody son of a _cock-sucking-"_

"-rry James Potter, you better be in bloody boiling hot _soup, _'cause you just interrupted a ruddy good snogging session-"

The two of them froze. The voice was familiar to Harry, but not the one he'd expected to hear.

"Charlie?" he exclaimed incredulously. "Are you- who are you- bloody hell, were you snogging _Sirius?" _

There came the sounds of some uncomfortable throat clearing, and then Sirius's voice came through. "Um- yeah, sorry bout that, pup." It sounded like Charlie was sniggering in the background. "Yeah, anyway, so- you've reached the park, then? Wait- the mirror- what the hell-"

He tore out of Flint's lax grip and scrambled to get to the broken pieces of the mirror. "Siri! Here! I'm here! I'm okay!" He could make out his godfather's fractured face in the shards, a frowning brow here, a downturned mouth there, and stormy eyes the colour of diamond. "He might have…overreacted a little," he said slyly, glancing up at the older boy where he wouldn't meet his eyes, his cheeks tinged pink.

"Wait-what?" Sirius exclaimed. "He didn't- if he laid a hand on you, pup, I'll-"

'Pup?' he saw Flint mouth to himself, and he could practically see the cogs turning in his head, and hid a grin.

"It's fine, Sirius," he reassured his godfather. "Whatever it was, he took it out on your mirror. I think he's worked out all of the kinks, too. Don't worry; I'll get him to repair it," he added, and laughed when Flint scowled.

"Pup?" came Sirius's voice again, still slightly concerned, and he smiled. "I'll be fine, Siri. I'll see the two of you later, all right? And you owe me the full story when I get back."

"I could say the same, lover_boy_!" he heard Charlie call out pointedly from behind his godfather, and the bits of skin he could see from Sirius were flushed pink. He laughed, again, feeling his cheeks heat up. "I'll see you later," he said again, "Love you, Siri," he added pointedly, just to rib Flint. The older boy growled as Sirius's mouth curled into a smile.

"Love you too, pup."

He looked at Flint from where he was kneeling beside the broken pieces of the mirror, no longer glowing. "Well?" he said. "Aren't you going to fix it?" He got to his feet, dusting his hands off against his trousers.

Flint bared his teeth at him, but set about doing so.

"I don't know what you were thinking," Harry remarked, sitting on the chaise couch not too far away. "Were you- were you _jealous? _Of Sirius? But you couldn't have been. He's my godfather- what possible reason do you have for being jealous, let alone of him?"

Flint didn't answer, so he continued his little monologue. "Well, I expect you're going to have to apologise to him later. And Charlie, too, since you interrupted…the both of them." He made a face at the thought. "Charlie and Siri. Really. I was wondering at the way Charlie kept looking at Sirius but I didn't think it was because of _that!" _

_ "_Your godfather…" Flint said stiltedly, "he was that dog back at Diagon Alley? Not Transfiguration- an Animagus?"

He cocked his head sideways and smiled, a little, at Flint. "Got it in one. He's unregistered, so you've got to keep mum about that. That's how he's managed to escape detection so far, but it won't last forever. That's why I want Pettigrew. You can't tell me the rat's useful to anyone. Come on then, Flint, I coughed up my bit. Now you owe me some answers at least. Just what's going on inside that head of yours?"

To his surprise, Flint looked upset. "Can't you tell, Harry?" he asked. His voice was hoarse. "Can't you tell?"

Harry tried to think it through before answering this time. He'd never thought there was a day his words could hurt Marcus Flint, of all people, but apparently there was, and it was today.

"You- you're interested in me, a little bit," he tried, "but I don't get why, or how. I don't understand it."

"I thought I was making myself quite clear," Flint said.

"But I don't understand _why," _he shot back.

Flint sighed, and stood with the repaired glass in his hand. He set it aside on one of the tables, safe and out of the way. "Does that have to be a why?" he asked patently. "Can't I just be interested in you?"

"But there's no reason for you to be," he said back, just as patently. He pursed his lips. "Mrs. Malfoy mentioned that your family- well, your father and you, at least-"

"My father's a telepath," Flint said flatly, "and I'm an empath. Is that what this is all about?"

Harry shrugged. "I don't know. You should be the one telling me that- they said that I'm only interesting because I can feel you leaking through your shields, and that if I can resist the Imperius Curse I should be able to resist you. Is that it, then?"

Flint narrowed his eyes at him. "So you'd listen to them now, would you?" he asked, a bit sneering.

Harry stared unrelentingly back. "I'm listening to you now, aren't I?"

Flint grabbed him by the throat and the hip off the couch and slammed him into the nearest wall, knocking all breath from his lungs. Any sound he might've made was swallowed by the older boy instead. Flint drank the air from his lips, lapping at them openly and eagerly. Harry could only whine at the back of his throat while the older boy continued his assault. Harry supposed he was meant to feel a little threatened when Flint's body covered his so easily, when Flint barely had to expend any energy at all to lift him and fling him all over the bloody place, but all he could do was scrabble for purchase against the older boy's shoulders. His feet weren't even touching the ground; perhaps if they were pointed, his toes might brush the carpet, but Flint had his thigh lodged firmly between his legs, supporting him, with his bum resting on top.

Harry managed to wrest his head away from Flint, gasping for breath, but Flint didn't let up, going instead for the line of his jaw, his neck, his _throat. _Flint was almost savage in his pursuit, using lips and teeth and tongue and not letting up for a moment.

"Is this reason enough?" he breathed into Harry's ear, and then licked up the side of it. He remembered how Flint's tongue had wend its way over that spoon at Ancelot, and fancied it must have felt a little like this. Harry shuddered as Flint proceeded to nip his way down his neck, till he reached the collar of his shirt.

"Ruddy stupid clothes," Flint growled as he divested him rapidly of both vest and shirt. "I didn't buy them for you to hide behind."

Harry gave a silly giggle at the cold air biting his body. Flint ran his hands up and down his bare skin, leaving behind scalding trails of warm-blooded heat. He didn't tarry for long, though, cruising easily down the line of his breastbone, past his navel, to the button on his trousers.

"You're-" he began breathlessly.

"I want you to know how much I want this, want you," Flint said, and they were nose-to-nose, emerald against pistachio. Flint kissed him again, and Harry stared at his face, at the pale lids that revealed delicate, square-cut freckles on them now that they hid his pistachio-coloured irises from view. A generous person might call Marcus Flint handsome. There were certain elements about him, certainly, that made him striking, he supposed, as long as no one asked him about them. He was feeling a little too overcome to give any answer at all.

Flint flicked open the button with his thumb, and then wasted no time pulling down his zipper. He palmed him straight through the thick cotton trousers and the boxer-briefs underneath, and Harry exhaled with a groan.

Flint hoisted him up for a moment, settling him firmly astride his thigh as he divested him of both remaining garments. Harry couldn't remember when he'd spared the time to kick off his sneakers, and now he was completely naked to Flint's completely clothed.

Flint's hand was rough, calloused from both Quidditch and quills. It was familiar in an odd sort of way, seeing as how Harry's own hand had near-identical callouses. He squeaked when Flint's fist tightened at the top of the stroke, and clung to the other boy's larger frame. He couldn't do much else. Flint had him gasping for breath, chest caved in from where his arms clutched onto the his shoulders in a death-grip, all the way up till his climax. Then Harry was left still wantonly astride Flint's thigh, legs sprawled open on either side as Flint released him enough for him to sag back against the cool wall. The plaster felt nice against his sticky, overheated skin.

Flint smeared his soiled hand against the wall to clean it, enough so that he could pick him up, supporting him with thick, solid hands against his thighs. Harry just let him, too sated by his orgasm to do anything but watch him with hooded eyes. When Flint put him down this time, it was on the bed, and gently. He just lay there, legs and arms spread akimbo and bare, and listened to the sounds of the older boy kicking his own shoes off. When the other boy joined him on the bed, though, he was still in his henley and jeans, although he'd removed his socks. Harry shuddered at that, because Flint's toes were _cold. _

"What is it," Flint whispered. He'd tugged him close enough that their chests were pressed against each other, and they both had a leg threaded between them. It didn't seem to matter to him that one of them was clothed and the other naked. Although now that they were this close, Harry could feel Flint's own response to his nakedness quite prominently against his thigh, and swallowed hard.

"You have cold toes," he told the other, reaching up hesitantly to rest one hand on Flint's broad chest. The smile that greeted him seemed encouraging more than anything else.

Flint pressed a kiss to his cheek, just shy of his lips. "I guess I'll have to depend on you to keep me warm," he replied, and Harry could feel his mouth curving into a smile against his skin. Slowly, Harry relaxed into Flint's embrace. This was all a little new and strange for him, but it hadn't been bad, any of it. Even when Flint had been a little rough- Harry was shocked to feel a frission of lust jolt his body.

"What is it?" Flint asked again.

"Nothing," he said, too quickly.

Flint smirked, and tapped his temple. "You're forgetting: empathy, remember. You were feeling aroused. Now- what was it?"

Harry flushed and tried to turn his face away, but Flint was faster, and wouldn't let him. "It wasn't- wasn't bad, when you were a little rough," he admitted, and Flint kissed him for it. He kissed back this time, curling his tongue right around Flint's. It got easier and easier every time.

"Do you want to try again?" Flint asked when he pulled away. Harry was a little smug to see the older boy slightly breathless. "Properly, this time."

"Properly, as in…you're going to take your clothes off this time?" Harry asked, almost coy.

There was a hunger in Flint's eyes that he hadn't let himself see before. "Yes," the other replied, voice gruff, "if you'd like."

"Okay," he agreed, before he could lose his nerve. Flint's eyes widened briefly before he dove in to kiss him within an inch of his life. He only pulled away to start pulling off his clothes, and Harry hauled himself upright to get a better picture.

He'd always known Flint had been hiding some serious muscles. It'd been obvious even back in the day, at Hogwarts, and his first re-impression of Flint at the Ministry had done nothing to change that. When Harry had seen him tonight, the form-fitting henley and jeans had given him some idea of just what type of change Flint was packing underneath all his robes. And while he might have been an innocent, that certainly didn't mean he was blind. He'd noticed the women around them noticing, and some of the men, too, and couldn't help noticing himself, too, even if he hadn't said anything. But nothing quite prepared him for the sight that greeted him once those clothes finally came flying off.

Flint was _fit. _He hadn't noticed how fit until the clothes started coming off, but after that it was like he couldn't do anything else _but _notice. Flint's muscles weren't obnoxiously large, but he certainly had some well-developed biceps and triceps, and the skin of his torso moulded tightly over his packs of muscle. His legs were surprisingly rangy, if athletic, covered in sparse, wiry hair.

Then Harry's gaze cut half-mast, and he flushed. Flint was certainly…well hung_. _From his dormitory, Dean was the only one who measured anywhere close, but even then his mate was still shorter and a little on the skinny side compared to this. Harry was comfortably average, but Flint was…Flint was _large. _And he only got larger in his aroused state. He wet his lips and went, "Wow."

The older boy smirked upon seeing where his gaze had fallen. "Here," he said, and swung a leg over him, straddling and pushing him back down into the mattress. Harry was extremely conscious of wherever their bodies touched. He was so hard his foreskin was completely pushed back, exposing the pulsing red head; he'd never been this aroused before, and the speed of things was making him a little dizzy.

"Here," Flint murmured, "let me," and he whispered the words of a spell lost between their bodies, before reaching under himself. It was driving Harry crazy. He knew Flint was doing something back there, because his hand kept moving and the light hair dusting the back of it would brush against his cock at every other stroke, but he couldn't see anything from this angle. He tried to sit up, but Flint pushed him back down, biting back a groan as he shifted position. He frowned. Just what was Flint-

"Here," Flint murmured again, but he sounded breathless and ravaged. His frown deepened, but that was before the older boy slid down a little nearer on top of him, and his cock pressed against Flint's bare arse. Flint reached under to grip his cock, holding it steady, but he did little more than that. Harry whined at the sparse contact.

"What're you-" he began, but Flint pressed himself lower with a broken groan. "Ah-" Harry couldn't quite cry out. It felt like all his concentration was centred around his cock, and his vocal chords couldn't even work right. His cock was _inside _Flint, and the heat and clenching fit were- but how- his eyes widened in realisation. No. That couldn't be possible- Flint sunk even lower with a groan till his arse was flush against his thighs. Harry felt his cheeks heat up, and, in response, felt his cock swell. Flint gave a low satisfied hum, smirk on his face, and rolled his hips. Harry cast his head back and moaned, helpless, caught between Flint's arse and the bed as his elbows fought to support him.

"That's it," Flint purred as he bent over him, hips still working.

"How're you even-" he gasped out, fingers clenching in the sheets beside them. Flint bent down and kissed him, working his hands free of the sheets and placing them on his waist instead. Harry gripped him instinctively, gasping when that brought them even closer. His own hips snapped up, and Flint made an uncomfortable noise.

"I'm sorry-!"

Flint pressed a hand to his mouth to quiet him. "No," he said, and his voice was ragged. Harry stared up at the older boy with wide eyes. He was almost beautiful on the verge of orgasm. A jolt shot through his stomach at the sight, and he was shocked at how much closer _he _was to coming with the knowledge of how close Flint was, too.

Tentatively, he pressed his hips up again as Flint rolled his down, and he moaned at how much tighter that made Flint feel around him. It only took a few more thrusts before he was coming inside the older boy's body. Above him, Flint was panting heavily, his auburn hair matted dark with sweat as it hung in his face. He glanced down, and saw that the older boy was in nearly as bad a condition as he'd been before Flint had seen fit to take things into his own…body. Chewing his lip nervously, he reached for the organ, biting down at how similar it felt to his own. Flint arched his back at the first gentle touch, and Harry struck up a rhythm between hand and hips, watching the older boy keenly for his reactions. Between them, Harry had Flint coming within a few moments, and couldn't help his own surge of pleasure tied to the other boy's, even as he bit back a wince at how Flint's muscles clamped down on his oversensitised cock. He smiled shakily up at Flint, and the other leant down. Harry didn't even bother tempering his response; he just craned his neck and met him halfway.

"Thank you," he whispered shyly as their lips parted. Flint didn't reply verbally, just kissed him again in response.

The older boy slowly pulled off, causing them both to moan as they separated. He pinked at the way Flint was stretching out his back, his sated cock hanging heavily against his thigh.

"Could I ask- just where- where-"

Flint grinned, rather toothily. "An arsehole isn't just a figure of speech, Harry."

He bypassed pink all the way and went straight to red. Flint chuckled at his reaction as he settled down on the mattress beside him, watching him with something that looked like budding fondness in his pale green eyes.

"There was something I wanted to give you first," he revealed, "before I overreacted…and we kind of fell into the rest." He twisted about for his jeans, which he'd shucked somewhere off the bed earlier, looting the pockets and turning them all inside out. Harry enjoyed the view of Flint bent tight in two over the edge of the bed, and privately mourned the loss when the older boy found whatever he was looking for.

"Here," Flint said, indicating for him to hold out his hand. Harry obeyed, and Flint dropped a ring into his hand. He nearly dropped it in turn, he was so startled by its weight. It was considerably heavier than he expected such a tiny thing to weigh. When he studied it a little closer, he saw that it was a simple ring carved in matte black to imitate the trace grooves of a tree. He hefted it a couple of times, and was startled by how the air seemed to hum around it.

"What is it?" he asked.

"It's a graft from a metal tree," Flint explained, propping his head up on his elbow. "As long as the parent tree is still living, any graft will remain as alive."

"It's actually wood?" he exclaimed.

"Of a sort," Flint answered. "It grows like any other tree, except that it's entirely made out of metal. It can only be harvested by magic and it works just like metal, only that it conducts magic instead of heat, or electricity." He glanced up at his face, unusually solemn. "I told you, I meant every word. The ring is yours, if you'll wear it."

"What do you mean, the ring is mine?" he exclaimed in shock. "Do you- you mean- are you serious?" he breathed.

"That question is going to get old," Flint muttered, but he did nod. "I've meant every word I've said to you, Harry. As an empath I know it when people are lying to me. Words are one thing people can manipulate, but not true emotion. I don't like being lied to, and therefore I would hardly subject someone I- I care for, to such."

Harry looked between the ring, and Flint's face, and back again. "How is this going to change things?" he had to ask.

Flint looked pleased that he'd bother to ask after this. "You've heard from my side of things," he said. "That's not going to change. But on your side, however- I'm expecting plenty of changes, beginning with the way they treat you. I will _make _them happen."

He bit his lip. "Mrs. Malfoy did say that the lot of you Flints were quite…dedicated, when you found someone."

Flint gave him a half-smile. "That's a bit of an understatement. My father nearly killed his brother-in-law because of something he said against my mother. He'd had a particular habit of disparaging her, you see. Nothing serious, and he never really meant it, but it was all quite barbed. Mother'd grown used to it after a time, brushed it over, but Father took quite serious offence to it. My uncle has never been welcomed at the Flint Manor, either. The wards are under orders to strike him down dead should he ever cross them."

Harry opened his mouth in a soundless, 'O.'

The older boy took his hand, the one still holding the ring, and lightly caressed it. "Will you need more time?" he asked. "I'll wait."

"It's a little bit late for that, isn't it?" he asked tartly, his smile wry as he gestured between the two of them.

To his surprised Flint looked away this time, cheeks flushing pink. "I overreacted," he conceded. "I never meant for things to get this far- by rote it shouldn't have, not before you agreed. But you didn't seem to mind." Flint bit his lip, looking back. "Did you?"

Harry stared intently into Flint's eyes, willing those pistachio eyes to tell him everything he'd ever wanted to hear.

"All right," he rasped, "I'll wear it."

Flint's mouth went slack in shock. "You do know what this means, don't you?" he asked. "With this- we're effectively bonded. You can't renege this, Harry-"

"I know," he said, "I'm sure." He swallowed past the lump in his throat, and gripped Flint's hand back, the weight of the living metal between them. He looked Flint in the eye, willing him to see for himself, and feel the certainty he had for this decision.

"Okay," Flint whispered, withdrawing both hand and ring. It was only for a moment, before they were both back, and Flint was slipping it onto his fourth finger. The metal seemed almost warm against his skin, the beat of the living wood thrumming in time with his pulse.

"It can serve as a focus," he explained, "if you ever find yourself without your wand. They may be even more effective than a wand, especially since a metal tree's main purpose is to conduct magic. It thrives off it, and the more magic you store in it, the healthier it'll be. They're incredibly rare, though," Flint added, forestalling his next question. "Our family has fostered this one for generations, and it will always recognise a Flint." He gave a sly smile, and Harry could feel Flint reaching out with a tendril of his own magic towards the ring. His hand jerked as the wood seemed to beat faster in excitement. And then Flint withdrew his magic, and the wood calmed down. "Now that it's yours, though- it'll only recognise your magical signature, too."

"Do you have one?" he asked next.

Flint wore a bit of a dopey grin. "Yeah," he said, rooting about his jeans for the matching ring, also in metallic wood. Flint leaned across and kissed him. Harry sighed into the contact. This was the closest he'd ever come to being content, ever.

"We really should clean up, though," the older boy said after a moment.

Harry scowled. Did he have no understanding of the meaning 'afterglow'? Harry asked him as much, causing Flint to laugh. "Isn't there some sort of cleaning charm we can use?" he wheedled. "I'm kind of lazy right now."

Flint continued to chuckle. "It's called 'Scourgify' and no, we can use it later. Let's go take a bath instead."

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><p>And no, I'm not quite done with them yet (o: Thanks for reading, and do review. Cheers.<p> 


	9. Chapter 9

**Anybody's Hero**

Rating: M

Summary: At the Wizengamot, Harry finds himself having a battle of wits with a very different opponent instead: Marcus Flint. Warnings for slash. Marcus/Harry.

For my 300th reviewer from **To Bedlam and Partway Back** , Lone-Angel-1992. I'm so sorry it took a whole bleeding year. But thanks ever so much for believing I'd come out with it in the end (o:

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, nor the lyrics of the Morrissey song the title comes from.

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><p><span>Chapter Nine<span>

It was strange, he thought absently, how comfortable he'd gotten with running around starkers with Flint. Or he supposed he ought to start calling the other boy Marcus, now. It'd only taken him one summer, eight chapters and two bouts of sex to do so, after all.

He was in the bathroom, watching Marcus slip into their bathtub first, careful not to tip the water over the porcelain edge. He could see the steam rising from the gathered water, and plunked his toe in, tentatively testing the temperature first before slowly submerging the rest of him together with the older boy. They were in a semi-reverse of their previous position on the bed, with him straddling Marcus across the waist, his thighs spread on either side of him, hands delicately perched on those broad shoulders. Harry didn't have the slightest clue what else to do with them, besides.

But it was easy, when Marcus looked up at him like that, to react with a lean-down and a kiss. Almost too easy, in fact.

"That's not so hard, is it?" Marcus hummed, their lips barely an inch apart as he forewent answering for another kiss. He had the oddest feeling that Flint was laughing at him, but he was very firmly not thinking about it. He could feel Marcus's roving hands, though, over his shoulders, down his back, under his arms to his che-!

It was a very close thing; he nearly bit the tip off his tongue when Marcus's thumbs flicked against his nipples. Flint definitely was laughing at him this time. "You liked that, then?" he teased, mirth brimming in his pistachio eyes.

Harry tried scowling, but it was a little hard to keep a straight face against Marcus's warmth. The older boy thumbed his nipples again, and he shuddered. He nearly missed Marcus leaning forward, before he felt teeth against his collarbone and skin, nipping, biting, marking a path down his chest, before his head dipped even lower and flicked a nipple with his tongue instead of his finger. Harry's hands had risen, unbidden, to clench in Marcus's sopping hair, holding his head in place against his chest. First one side, and then the other, till he'd forgotten completely about Marcus's hands, right until he found them cupping his arse.

"Cheeky bastard," he groaned, without any heat, and Marcus chuckled, causing him to shudder even more at the vibrations against his chest. He shivered when he felt his arse gently pried apart, Marcus's large hands easily encompassing one cheek each. It was little things like these that really highlighted their size disparity. He would never have half the bulk the older boy had; he was built more for lithe, whipcord muscle. A seeker's build, he supposed, although Marcus had been an unusual chaser; it was usually beaters, or keepers, that carried the bulk of a Quidditch team.

His hands dug into Marcus's scalp when a finger traced the crack of his arse.

"This isn't a very good bath," he muttered, "we're not getting very clean." His body had been spattered with his own cum and Marcus's, and he'd seen the thin trail down the inside of Marcus's thigh, that the older boy hadn't bothered hiding. Marcus's actions now would only ensure their getting even dirtier.

The other boy just hummed without answering, choosing instead to gnaw fondly at his shoulder while his finger slid up and down, getting him used to the feel. It wasn't all bad, he decided when a jolt of arousal caused him to arch his spine back into Marcus's ready hands, pressing the older boy's fingers more firmly against his bum. The skin about the rim gave easily, relaxed by the other's gentle ministrations and the hot water. He heard Marcus mutter something again, but he could guess what it was when his insides rang hollow. He'd never thought this much about the mechanics of sex between two men, but now he guessed he knew just about everything there was to know.

The first finger went in easily without much discomfort, and maybe Harry was imagining it, but he thought he felt the ring on his finger beat once, harder.

"You- you've seen yourself, so do know that there's no way you're going to fit, right?" he asked weakly. Marcus merely wiggled his finger deeper, smirking up at him.

"Why don't you leave that to me, hmm?" he murmured, twisting his finger inside. Harry bit back a grimace. It wasn't painful, merely uncomfortable, and he hefted more of his weight on his knees, rather than his bum.

Marcus continued to distract him from the second probing finger with his exceedingly talented mouth, but it was a little hard to ignore, pressing in without any lubrication apart from the warm water. He winced as the stretch burned, dry and scraping against his walls, and he felt his muscles clench down reflexively, tightening against the intrusion.

"Hey, hey," Marcus coaxed, rubbing at the small of his back with his unoccupied hand, while he busied him with another thorough snog.

"You seemed like you were enjoying this a lot more than I am," he accused when they broke apart. That had Marcus laughing at him, nimble fingers searching until they pressed down and-

"Oh!" he exclaimed, instinctively pressing back. His breathing quickened, and he had to brace himself against Marcus's shoulders in much the same way he had in the beginning.

"Now you know why I was enjoying myself," Marcus said with a grin. He was moving his fingers in and out now, hitting that same spot each time. Harry's arousal was back practically full force but he felt like he could have come from those fingers alone. He dug his nails into the older boy's shoulders, unable to bite back a whine.

"Right," Marcus grunted, lifting him abruptly, "I think that's enough."

"Wait, wha-"

He didn't have any time to react, just enough to cling to the older boy as he stood with him in his arms and his fingers buried in his arse, dripping cooling water everywhere. Their sudden change in position forced Marcus's fingers all the way in and he gasped, helpless against how far the other boy was buried inside him.

"Grab a towel love, now there's a good lad," Marcus murmured, "round your shoulders, that's it." He carried him back to the bedroom, where the older boy laid him back down on the bed, causing him to whimper in protest when his fingers slipped out.

Marcus reared over him between his legs, spreading his thighs apart. Harry gazed up at him, feeling a little weak-kneed after everything. When he mentioned that to Marcus, the older boy grinned. "Well," he said, "it's a good thing I'm the one on my knees, not you."

He whispered that spell again, and when his fingers went to press back in, they were slick with something that had a lot more give in it than hot water, and Harry groaned, hips canting up as he tried to get more of that feel. Harry would never have guessed it of himself before, but he was really starting to enjoy this. Not just when Marcus pressed at that spot that made his belly curl, but also the slip and slide in and out of him; he wanted it deeper, and it made him spread his legs apart as far as they could go, all in an open invitation. He just had to remind himself not to think too much about the mechanics of the thing, because if he really thought about just what was going up where-

"Yeah, yeah, that's it," the older boy muttered encouragingly, moving his two fingers in and out while he rolled his hips up and down in tandem, utterly distracted. That third finger was a bit of a stretch, wrenching a keen out of him where it filled him full to bursting, it felt like, but he was lying there on the bed, all sprawled out and bared for Marcus's taking. The slick slide of it was utterly glorious and made his belly hollow in a way that spell never would. His thighs were practically repelled from each other, his hips rising in time with the older boy's fingers. Harry was panting hard, mouth agape, perspiration trickling into his eyes. Harry raised a hand to wipe the droplets away, only to smear them all over his lenses.

"Bloody hell," he griped, removing his glasses before mopping his face. When he made a move to wipe the glass, Marcus caught him and tossed them somewhere on the bedspread.

"Forget that," he told him. "you don't need to see. Just feel, for now. Besides, there'll be plenty of other times. We'll make them ourselves."

Harry bit his lip at that. Everything Marcus had done so far had hinted to this being more than a one-off thing, but with that casual reference…Marcus's offhand affirmation of this meant much more to him than he had let himself believe.

"Hey. C'mon, Harry, look at me."

He blinked past the sweat in his eyes to stare up at the russet-haired smear, beige except for two spots of pistachio. The beige moved, revealing a slash of white. Marcus was smiling. He couldn't help but smile back too at this abstract of the other boy.

Marcus was careful, when he pushed in, but it couldn't completely erase the pain. He'd never been taken before, and no amount of preparation could fully simulate the feel of being entered. He managed to keep his gasps to a minimum, though, concentrating on the large, sloping shoulders under his palms rather than the scrape and push inch after inch deeper and deeper within him. When Marcus finally stopped moving, he sighed, relaxing back against the mattress as much as he was able to.

"Perfect," he faintly heard Marcus whisper, "you're absolutely perfect."

He didn't hear or see much else. He didn't need to.

* * *

><p>"Good?" Marcus was lying on his side, head propped up on his elbow with a smirk on his face that preempted any answer he might have made. His glasses had been cleaned and returned to him, the older boy once again in sharp focus, but they might as well've been shattered for all that he could process. The most Harry could manage was a slurred, groggy noise anyways as he curled up on his side to face Marcus, legs gingerly retracting. His spine gave a bit of a twinge, bum stinging while his belly felt…<em>strange<em>, but it was nothing he couldn't handle over the buzz in his ears. He was more bothered by the stickiness leaking between his legs and smearing his belly. It was going to be an absolute horror when it dried, but he didn't have the strength or presence of mind to deal with it right now. Marcus chuckled at him.

"You're a little punch-drunk, aren't you?" he murmured, reaching out with a hand to tilt his chin up. "Was it really that good?" Harry allowed the touch with a dazed smile. He was vaguely aware of Marcus tilting him this way and that, studying him keenly. "It's as if you've been drugged…" Harry felt more than noticed Marcus reaching out with a tendril of his magic towards his ring, and instead of pulsing like it did the last time, it spat out a fat spark, causing Marcus to flinch, before startling him into laughter.

"By Merlin…" he chortled, "it looks like we won't even need Black anymore. With this the bond's been sealed, so it takes precedence over any previous bindings. All of your blocks have been destroyed. Which is why you're acting like this…I don't think you're used to feeling this much magic flooding you, are you?" Harry hummed his agreement absently, not really taking in the older boy's words.

"It's like those Muggle electrical contacts that have been shorted out by an overload, in your case, of magic," Marcus explained. "It'll take a while for you to regenerate strong enough contacts to handle the full measure of your magic. You won't be able to use any of it until you've adjusted enough, so be careful." The older boy's voice sounded imperative, but Harry only got about one word out of five from that, and could only blearily mumble back.

Marcus snorted. "Well, at least we won't have to bother with _Black _any longer."

Harry summoned up enough energy to stare incredulously at the older boy. "…'d trust Charlie Weasl' 'ver Sirius _Black? _…ev'n lis'nin' t' y'self as you're saying this?" Marcus looked a little abashed, at least.

"The best thing for you now is rest," Marcus told him once he regained some dignity, drifting a hand through his messy locks, before sliding it to his waist and pulling him close, tucking him into his side. Harry curled up a little tighter, slipping an arm of his own over the older boy's waist, and burying his nose in his chest. Marcus felt solid and alive under his touch, his woody cedar scent only cementing it so, and the heat emanating from his flesh was dragging him relentlessly under.

"…'fore dawn," he mumbled against Marcus's skin.

The older boy chuckled, warm and low. He felt a hand settle in his hair, threading through the loose ends. "I'll wake you. Before dawn, I promise." The last thing he knew was Marcus's chin, coming to rest atop his head, tucking him close before he was out like a light.

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><p>Whoops! I'd forgotten this was such a short chapter. It was a close call; this being posted today instead of tomorrow. I'd been on holiday this past week, and couldn't remember for the life of me the day, let alone the date. Just a bit of a public apology to all those whose PMs and reviews I'd left sitting in my inbox till today (o: Thank you for all your patience, and for reading. Do review! Cheers.<p> 


	10. Chapter 10

**Anybody's Hero**

Rating: M

Summary: At the Wizengamot, Harry finds himself having a battle of wits with a very different opponent instead: Marcus Flint. Warnings for slash. Marcus/Harry.

For my 300th reviewer from **To Bedlam and Partway Back** , Lone-Angel-1992. I'm so sorry it took a whole bleeding year. But thanks ever so much for believing I'd come out with it in the end (o:

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, nor the lyrics of the Morrissey song the title comes from.

* * *

><p><span>Chapter Ten<span>

"I don't see anything," Marcus grumbled in the pre-dawn light.

"You're not supposed to, you git," he said good-naturedly. "It's under the Fidelius. Look past the end of your nose a bit, won't you, and spot the bloody house numbers instead."

Marcus followed his instructions and squinted at the nameplates on the hideous gothic townhouses, each one as morbid as the next. "Ten…eleven…thirteen…," he muttered. "Twelve," he realised. "Twelve is missing." If Harry hadn't mentioned it, Marcus would never have realised it. Even now, the information on number 12 Grimmauld Place was trying to desperately slip away from him. It seemed like a subconscious effect of his magic, to be able to circumvent even subconsciously the power of the Fidelius Charm.

"You can't get in, anyways," Harry added.

"Can _you_ get back in?" Marcus asked. For him, there wouldn't have been any visible area between numbers 11 and 13.

"I can see it," Harry said, "even if you can't. The wards will let me in, and I can get Sirius to open a window for me to climb through. Oh, yeah," he suddenly remembered, "which reminds me. Voldemort said to warn me Sirius would need an Anchor if we tried to do that ritual which would remove the blocks on me- and don't get started all over again! He wasn't involved, so you don't have to keep overreacting like that! Why did Sirius need an Anchor when you wouldn't?"

Marcus scowled, but at least he looked like he was considering his answer. "A block like this, damming your magic, is highly volatile. I trust my Lord mentioned what could happen if a ritual was conducted recklessly?"

He nodded slowly. "He said that I shouldn't scratch at the bindings, no matter what I did. It'd tear off a large chunk of my magic, and I'd never be able to regenerate it."

"That's correct," Marcus said. "Especially with as much magic as you have, Harry, it'd be far too easy for anyone inexperienced in Occlumency to lose his head while in such deep contact with that much power for an extended amount of time. And even if the Blacks trained their spawn well, growing up, I doubt the man's stint in Azkaban will have done much for the state of his mind. He would have needed a tether to hold his mind and magics grounded to his body while in the midst of the ritual."

"Then why wouldn't you need one?" he asked. "Does any of that have to do with your empathy."

"You're starting to get it," Marcus said approvingly. "I never needed an Anchor because my shields are firmly in place. We're Bonded now too, which makes my first option for Anchor you. Besides, if it really came down to it, I've a straight line through to my father at any one time. You would never have been able to overwhelm us both."

Harry raised his eyebrows appraisingly as he tried to process all that was just said. Thankfully his mind had cleared somewhat after that nap. He'd really druther not be the instigation for a fight to the death between Marcus and Sirius. He turned to the older boy with a slight grin. "Thanks," he said shyly, "for the explanation and- well, everything else, I suppose." He grinned impishly. "I guess there are some benefits to screwing me silly."

"You don't have to tell me that," Marcus replied, leering. He laughed, batting away Marcus's hands. The older boy ignored him and carded a hand through his messy hair in a move so natural it was like they'd been doing this for years. He leaned into the touch with a soft sigh. "You don't have to thank me," the older boy murmured. "I barely did anything. Although you did quite a lot for me, too," he added, pretending to lick his lips.

Harry rolled his eyes at Marcus's teasing and smacked him lightly on the chest. "I remember," he drawled, "and so does my arse." Marcus grinned, and swooped down for a kiss. It was almost second nature for him to respond, now. He couldn't remember how many times they'd kissed from the start till now. As familiar as it was, the kissing certainly wasn't any less welcome.

"You've still got the parchment?" Marcus asked. He nodded. He hadn't brought it with him last night, but it was still in his room, inside the pocket of the trousers he'd worn yesterday. "Write, if there's anything. I understand Longbottom visits, and when Hogwarts reopens, you know the ones you can look to."

"Sure," he said.

"I'll come by during a Hogsmeade weekend," Marcus continued. "See if you can slip away?"

He grinned, feeling the weight of his cloak in his back pocket. "That shouldn't be a problem."

Marcus looked at him curiously, but he seemed content to let sleeping dogs lie. He bent down for one more kiss. "Go on up, then, before they come looking for you."

He smiled, and pressed a last kiss to the corner of Marcus's mouth. It was pretty wide, and he had the typical English teeth, but he sure as heck couldn't deny that the older boy knew how to use it.

"You'll ask after Wormtail?"

Marcus made a face at having to do anything, even this, for Sirius's sake, but he did nod his agreement. Harry felt a grin curl on his lips, and reached up to pull the older boy down for a thoroughly enjoyable snog. Marcus growled in his mouth, his hands large and possessive over his body, but there was a dazed look writ on him by the time he drew back. Harry couldn't help but laugh, and the older boy gave him a rueful smile.

He walked right to the ward line before turning, once, and waving at Marcus. He could just make out the slight smile on the older boy's face. Then he stepped past the wards. When he glanced back, he noticed Marcus's eyes were unfocused, and no longer on him. It must have seemed liked he'd suddenly disappeared from view. Harry sighed, before hiking his way back up the trellis to the third-floor window. He slid his thumb across the row of runes on the sill, activating them, before hitching up the window and sticking his head through.

Sirius was still half-asleep, his mirror on the bedside table beside him, but his godfather jerked awake when he saw his head poke through the window.

"Harry!" he hissed. "Why didn't you call?" He scrambled out of bed, and thankfully he was still wearing a pair of drawers beneath the bedding, even if he was scrawny as all hell. Sirius shoved the window up all the way to the top, before hauling him through. He tumbled to the ground in a heap of limbs and grinned up at the man.

"I figured since we were early I didn't want to wake up and risk interrupting him. I figured there were only so many times I could piss off an angry dragontamer. Voldemort's nothing compared to that."

"Damn right he ain't," came a slurred voice from under the blankets. Harry glanced up just in time to see a tuft of red stick out from the covers, and then two pale blue ovals. Charlie made no move to get out of bed, which Harry was thankful for, seeing as how it looked like he was even less clothed than Sirius.

"I told them you were sharing with Charlie last night, and locked up my rooms," Sirius continued. "If I'd said you'd bunked in with me they were definitely going to think we were up to something." His godfather rolled his eyes at that. "Ron was grumpy about it, of course, but at least Molly didn't kick up a fuss."

Charlie grinned from the bed. "C'mon, Sirius, a mum's gotta trust her kids."

Sirius snorted. "Doubt anyone got anywhere trusting _you." _Charlie mimed being wounded and flopped back among the pillows. Sirius ignored the redhead and turned back to him with a grim smile. "But I'd wash up first if I were you," he warned.

"What?" he started. "But I showered just before-"

"With Flint?"

Harry flushed beet-red, which was all the confirmation his godfather needed.

"Thought so," he muttered. "Sorry, pup, but you still stink of- well, of sex."

Harry winced. This was _not _a conversation he wanted to be having with his godfather. Then he realised just what Sirius had let slip in front of whom and whipped his head about to stare at Charlie. Sirius seemed to realise too, belatedly. Charlie looked wide awake and shocked, yes, but not terribly alarmed.

"Flint?" Charlie parroted. "Marcus Flint?"

Harry ground his teeth. "Is that going to be a problem?"

Charlie barked a laugh that seemed a little wild. "No, not really, it's just- Stephen used to carry tales, you know? They all did, about Flint, or at least out of earshot. He was only a year younger, so they had to be rather discrete about it." Charlie stared at him a moment longer, before bursting out in laughter. "Oh, Merlin, if _Flint's _got his claws in you…I'm afraid you're in for it, mate. Did you hear what Old Flint did? And to his wife's brother, no less!"

Sirius was frowning worriedly. "What was it?"

Harry shook his head. "Stop freaking out, Sirius, Marcus told me. Apparently, it's a Flint trait to be- er, physically protective, over the ones they've chosen. His father nearly killed his uncle for something stupid he said against his mother."

Sirius raised his brows and whistled.

"Exactly," Charlie said. "And- oh, Merlin." He stared even harder. "You're- that's- you're wearing a ring. Flint gave you that, didn't he? He's really serious about this courtship. About you. He'll fight to the death to keep you out of this if that's the case."

He flushed when Sirius looked to him for astonished confirmation, shifting his hands behind his back and playing with the ring there. "Pup? Is this true?"

He flushed harder. Making a split decision, he pulled the ring off his fourth finger and slipped it over his third. He felt the ring chill for a moment it left his skin, but it immediately warmed again once it was nestled against the root of his finger. "Yeah," he said gruffly, not looking his godfather in the face. It was bad enough Sirius knew what they'd done, even if he didn't know the details. But to add this too- "You don't have to worry, Siri. Marcus is serious about this. He's wearing a ring, too, and it's binding."

His godfather still seemed a little nonplussed, while Charlie was wearing a soft smile.

"So Sirius, if you and Flint ever come to blows, I'm getting ringside seats."

His godfather scowled and walked over to the bed to clout the redhead on the head. "Who the hell are you siding with, prat?" Harry just laughed, looking fondly at the two men that seemed to have found each other. Charlie had still seemed sad when talking about his Stephen Nott, and he was just glad Sirius could smile at someone other than him.

"So the two of you…" he began slyly, climbing to his feet, and Sirius groaned at his tone.

"Pup!" he whined.

"You'll going together then?" he asked, grinning unrepentantly. To his bewilderment, Charlie and Sirius looked to each other first, neither of their faces expressing the same amusement.

"Eh, pup," Sirius began, "about that-"

Charlie looked straight at him and smiled, pained. "I- I haven't forgotten Stephen," he admitted quietly.

"And I'm just a mess," Sirius muttered, not meeting his eyes.

He stared at them both, astonished. "But the two of you have been telling me again and again just how serious Purebloods are with- with relationships, and all!"

"You don't see either of us wearing rings now, do you, pup?" Sirius asked, kindly. "We didn't make any promises, and we didn't make any bonds. When Purebloods fall, they fall hard. But until then- or in Charlie's case, if they can't have them-"

He looked to Charlie again. "Did his parents object?"

Charlie chuckled, looking down at his hands tangled in the bedspread. "It wasn't his parents' problem, but mine. Honestly, have you ever seen someone not love me?" He puffed out his chest in a laughable show of bravado. Harry giggled, uneasily, to satisfy him.

"I would never have lived it down," Charlie added in a hushed voice. "That was why I left first chance I got- they couldn't touch me in Romania. Stephen and I tried again then, we really did, but every time I set foot back into this thrice-damned country-"

"I'm sorry," he said immediately. "I should have never asked."

Charlie's lips gave an upward quip, a far cry from his usual grin. "It's all right," he forgave. "You didn't know, and it's been long enough since, I guess. And you were…concerned, for your godfather's virtue," he threw in pompously, causing them all to laugh, genuinely this time.

"My virtue!" Sirius mock-snapped, smacking the redhead on the chest. "Didn't see you concerned for my virtue last night!"

He was on the floor again, nearly crying with laughter. "I don't want to hear it!" he cried. "I don't want to hear it!"

"But then again, Harry," Charlie said casually, "you did ask."

Even the two men seemed to have difficulty stoppering their laughter this time.

"But you're okay?" he managed to ask. "The two of you- you're okay?"

The men glanced at each other, looking a little braver, and Sirius reached out to ruffle Charlie's bedhead fondly.

"We're just fine, pup," he replied, and Harry smiled.

* * *

><p>He was late for breakfast, seeing as how he'd listened to Sirius and gone to shower first. He made sure to scrub quite thoroughly at his godfather's words, taking the time out to think back on last night's events, and then again on this morning when they'd stirred. The shower then had originally been just to get him to wake up enough, but when Marcus had stepped in alongside, getting clean had been the last thing on their minds.<p>

It was still a little too soon between them for shower-sex, though, and Merlin knew he was still too sore to take anything else…properly. That hardly meant he was exempt from teasing, though, and Marcus had made it a point to trail his fingers low, his mammoth hands encompassing his arse but never quite penetrating. It had driven him fair mad.

Harry set last night's clothes aside, reminding himself to have Sirius spell them clean for him. There'd been that spell Marcus mentioned- 'scourgy,' or something. He shuddered to think of Mrs. Weasley getting her paws on his clothes, especially considering what they'd been through. Thankfully Marcus had ordered him enough pieces, so he dug into his newly-stocked wardrobe and pulled out a fresh set of clothing. He'd discovered that he'd rather be a little overdressed than underdressed as he had been for so many years, going by last night's example. He didn't mind that trousers were a little more formal than jeans, especially when they were in a lightweight material like cotton khakis, or chinos, or even linen. And while he had a few non-collared shirts (Marcus's prevalence for henleys showed up in his new wardrobe, too), he still largely favoured button-down shirts. At least their sleeves could be rolled up to make them appear less formal. He could hardly say the same about short-sleeved collarless shirts.

Layers, too. Now that Harry had a surplus of layers, he tended to wear a t-shirt under his button-down, or a vest or light jacket over. He'd rather be able to take things off rather than be unable to put more things on. Growing up at the Dursleys, the cold had been a constant companion, and hardly a welcome one. Even in the summer, nights got draughty in the cupboard under the stairs, and it only got worse as the days grew shorter. He'd only ever had a single threadbare blanket to contend with during both summer and winter, and he'd never had the luxury that even the Weasleys had, of being able to spell things warm. He was going to take every last advantage of that now that he had the chance.

Before he left the room he was meant to have shared with Ron, he slipped his cloak, Marcus's parchment, and wand into his pockets. You could never be too careful. Harry was about to learn that the hard way when he finally showed his face at the kitchen table.

* * *

><p>"Morning," he called amiably to the room at large. Charlie flashed him a quick smile, although none of his siblings seemed to share his predilection, except for the twins. Then again, no one could ever really tell what went on in their heads. Their mother didn't look too happy, but then again he hadn't been exactly pleasant to her. Mr. Weasley wasn't at the table; at work, he assumed, and so was Snape, a fact which Harry was just plain thankful for. Hermione shot him a wane smile, and he frowned at that. She hadn't been looking too well these past few days, but Harry had found little time to speak to her that hadn't involved Ron or Ginny. One or both of the redheads always seemed to be hovering around, and Hermione always looked too drained to do anything other than put up with them.<p>

Nymphadora Tonks was there, though, and she grinned, greeting him with her ever-present, "Wotcher, Harry!", and of course, Sirius, who looked like he was pouring Odgen's into his cornflakes when Mrs. Weasley had her back turned. His godfather winked, causing him to stifle a laugh.

He chose to sit next to Hermione, ignoring the empty seat beside Ginny and the redheaded girl's wounded sniff.

"Hey," he said quietly. "You all right?"

Her smile was a little brighter, but he didn't miss the worried look she shot in Ron's direction. When he looked up- sure enough, Ron was glowering at them from across the table. "Finished your homework?" he asked instead, loudly, and Hermione's answering smile was grateful.

They continued to chat about Charms and Transfiguration for a while longer until they heard another step creak the stair. He blinked in surprise. "So I wasn't the latest down?" he asked Hermione.

She managed to be cajoled into a laugh. "Considering how you're usually up earlier than all of us, I think we can forgive you for a day or two, Harry." He smiled back, choosing not to add how his habit of rising early had come from being forced to prepare breakfast for the Dursleys on pain of punishment.

It was Lupin who stumbled into the kitchen last, obviously exhausted. Harry frowned, and tried to remember how the moon had hung last night, but didn't recall seeing head or tail of it en route to Barnard Park. He didn't think it'd been a full moon, but maybe the wolf just had a very bad night. He shrugged, and dove back into his soggy eggs-on-toast.

Tonks greeted the man immediately, and shifted to make room beside her. Lupin smiled weakly and took the seat, but made a point to move his chair closer to Charlie. Harry stretched out his hand over the table to pour himself some more tea, and that was when Lupin froze. He glanced up at the man's odd reaction, but Lupin shook his head, smiling back weakly.

He was finished with breakfast and about to head out when he heard Lupin ask, "Harry wasn't in his room last night, was he?"

"No," Mrs. Weasley answered, "he was bunking in with Charlie, wasn't he, Charlie?"

He didn't stay to hear Charlie's reply. He knew that redhead, at least, had his back. He stopped by his and Ron's room to grab his textbooks and parchments, before following Hermione to the library. She was supposed to help him with his Potions essay. Merlin knew he needed all the help he could get.

He wasn't expecting to be jumped by Snape and Dumbledore a half-hour into his studying session. The last thing he saw was Hermione's mouth, open in a terrified scream. Well, he thought drowsily as the Stunner hit him, at least she wasn't in on it.

* * *

><p>He awoke in a room he didn't quite recognise, although, going by the cornices on the walls, he was still within the walls of Grimmauld Place. Then he squinted. No, he did recognise this room…or at least the idea of it. He'd been in it once, briefly, and it was set up in a near mirror image of Sirius's old room, although the velvet hangings were a Slytherin green and the Black crest carved above the headboard. Regulus's room, he realised. Then he noticed who else was in the room along with him, and gulped.<p>

Dumbledore was standing over him, wearing his expression of stern, grandfatherly disapproval, but Snape was clearly furious.

"Stupid brainless dolt!" he spat. "Consorting with Flint- what were you thinking!"

"Harry," Dumbledore intoned sadly, "this was clearly a mistake."

He glared back, trying to reach his ring with his magic. It didn't respond at all. Next he tried to feel for his wand, and bit back a curse when he found it gone, and his cloak. At least Marcus's parchment was still in place; they probably hadn't the foggiest what that was, although Merlin knew how that was going to help him right now. Unfortunately, Dumbledore noticed him squirming about and gave him the most disappointed look he could manage. Strangely, it didn't make his heart ache the same way it used to.

"Harry," Dumbledore said, "you've clearly put yourself in very grave danger. Marcus Flint is an extremely dangerous individual, as I'm well sure you remember from your days at Hogwarts-"

"Yes, well, Hogwarts is then and this is now," he retorted. "He's grown up since then, and so have I. Headmaster, you're always talking about giving people second chances-"

"Don't throw the Headmaster's words back at him, you stupid boy!" Snape snarled.

"Severus, please!" Dumbledore thundered.

Harry sneered at the younger man. "I suppose _you _think you're worth a second chance?" he shot back.

"Harry!" Dumbledore snapped. "That is no way to treat your professor!"

"I'm only treating him with the same amount of respect he's ever shown me," he hissed, "and that's none!"

"Severus, please," Dumbledore rumbled before Snape could get a word in. "And Harry, your professor has only ever had your best in mind."

He flinched at the similar phrasing. "I've heard that before," he said coldly, "and I've yet to see any of it."

"Impudent, snotty little-" Snape growled out. Harry flung out a hand and pointed accusingly at the man.

"There!" he snapped. "Do you want to tell me who's being childish now?"

Dumbledore sighed, and sent a quelling look Snape's way. The man was obviously seething, but he managed to rein his head in. He obviously couldn't help sneering at him, and Harry gave back as good as he got.

"Be that as it may, Harry, that is not the reason why we asked you here today," Dumbledore interrupted. "Remus sent along his concerns regarding your involvement of Flint-"

He ignored the rest of Dumbledore's words, thinking quickly back to what could possibly have caused his old professor to suspect him. And then he thought back to the moon cycle and realised: _werewolf_, completely ignorant of how up in his godfather's old room, Charlie and Sirius were currently hitting themselves on the head, having just remembered the same thing. Harry hid his wince, and tuned back just in time to hear Dumbledore finish with, "-dangerous, Harry. Please, you must tell us everything you told Flint. The Order may be in danger if you've let anything slip, even inadvertently. Lives are at stake, Harry."

"I'm not stupid enough to tell him anything about the Order," he retorted, when he'd done exactly that.

"But you're obviously stupid enough to trust him in the first place," Snape inserted snidely.

Harry whirled about and glared at him.

"Severus," Dumbledore said, sounding tired.

"Besides, where do you get off on all this, _Professor?" _he sneered. "Flint was _your _Slytherin. I'm sure you were well awareof whatever bollocks he might've gotten up to. So shouldn't we be questioning _you_ on what his intentions are?"

Snape looked absolutely livid, while Dumbledore just sighed. "Harry," he interrupted, forestalling Snape's words, "won't you tell us what you said to Flint?"

"It was nothing. I didn't say a word," he insisted. "Flint was just…interested, is all." He summoned up a flush.

Dumbledore glanced at Snape. The younger man shook his head, lip curling. "That's impossible. Someone from one of the old Pureblood families, brought up as Flint has, would never dare to engage in a simple dalliance out of wedlock."

Snape didn't know _shit, _Harry thought vindictively as he glared holes into his professor. It wasn't like Snape was a Pureblood name, anyways.

"You think he wouldn't be up for some fun? Come on, _Professor," _he mocked, "I thought you knew your house better than that!" Mentally he asked Marcus to forgive him the implied slur. Besides, from what Charlie and Sirius had said earlier, Purebloods engaged in whatever they wanted, as long as their intentions were clear.

Snape snarled, whirling about. "Like an empty-headed lackwit like you would ever know anything!"

He wanted so badly to reach down the man's throat and rip his heart out. "Isn't that good, then?" he spat brazenly. "Fine, well, at least we all know he's serious about it!"

Dumbledore's eyes sharpened keenly at him. "So you do admit it," the old man said, sounding wizened.

He glared at them both, utterly unrepentant.

Snape narrowed his eyes at him. He glared right back, sticking his chin out and crossing his arms over his chest. He felt something slide right off his mind, but ignored it. Nothing explained the startled look that crossed Snape's face next, though. If he weren't in such hot soup, he might even have laughed.

"Headmaster, I can't- I can't access his mind at all," Snape said, his voice tinged with shock.

Both he and Dumbledore froze at the man's words, and Dumbledore's first action was to stare straight at him with searing blue eyes. They sure as hell weren't twinkling any longer. _Oh, shit, _he thought._ Marcus, now would be a good time for some help._

* * *

><p>Just past the halfway mark last chapter, so this makes 8 more to go. Hang in there everyone (o: Just to address an itty-bitty concern that cropped up in the previous chapter, about worries of Harry being preggers: I can safely say that this is not an MPREG piece and, fortunately or unfortunately, I don't write MPREG pieces. Harry's discomfort comes about as a bit of a consequence of, well, penetrative sex. If you think about how the organs line up, and how now things are flowing in reverse…I hope you get the point (o: And that you weren't eating anything when you read this.<p>

Also, just because this has worked so well in the past, I'm opening a (nother) competition to my 300th reviewer, in case there is one before we hit that elusive 18th chapter (o: It could be a pairing of your choice, het or otherwise, but I'm afraid I won't write for Harry with Ron, Draco, Ginny or Snape, just out of sheer principle. Everyone else is fair game though, although it doesn't have to be Harry-centric (o: It may be a oneshot or chaptered piece, and in case of the latter I'll have to ask your patience in case the poor dear who ends up winning this has to wait a (nother) year for their piece like this one (o: Cheers everyone, and best of luck.


	11. Chapter 11

**Anybody's Hero**

Rating: M

Summary: At the Wizengamot, Harry finds himself having a battle of wits with a very different opponent instead: Marcus Flint. Warnings for slash. Marcus/Harry.

For my 300th reviewer from **To Bedlam and Partway Back** , Lone-Angel-1992. I'm so sorry it took a whole bleeding year. But thanks ever so much for believing I'd come out with it in the end (o:

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, nor the lyrics of the Morrissey song the title comes from.

* * *

><p><span>Chapter Eleven<span>

"Stupid, stupid, _stupid!" _Charlie snarled, pacing the small confines of his room. Sirius was sitting on the bed, head between his knees. "I'm a bloody magical creatures' specialist! I should've known about Remus immediately- Merlin, I'm so stupid!" He slammed a fist into the wall, cracking the plaster.

_"I'm _the stupid one," Sirius said quietly, not lifting his head from between his knees. "I should have noticed- Remus, he's changed. I would've thought he'd have known better, especially about Harry- they'd spent an entire year together at Hogwarts, after all. I should've noticed- should've seen Dumbledore sinking his hooks into him. Remus spent years on his own, after all, with no one but the old bastardfor support. It's just as much my fault. I haven't been a right mate to him."

Charlie rolled his eyes at him. "You were sentenced to bloody Azkaban for life for no good reason, for Merlin's sake," he drawled. "I don't know how you expected to be a right mate to _anyone _during that time, even your right hand. You can't take responsibility for Remus's life, or his choices. If you'd somehow managed to do that, I'd expect you to somehow have a way out of this sodding mess, too!" He sighed, and ruffled up the back of his hair. "Look, it's doing us no good here wallowing about in guilt and self-pity. How bout we try and figure out a way to help?"

Sirius sighed. "All right. What was it you said about Flint- that they're ruddy protective of their lot? Let's hope the boy applies it to Harry, too."

The redhead smirked. "I don't think you'll have a problem with that. Come on, Sirius, you know better than most how seriously Purebloods take such relations. And remember: Harry said it was binding on both their parts. Now all we need to do is contact Flint."

Sirius's head shot up. "The letter. The letter!" He would have dashed out the door if Charlie hadn't grabbed him first.

"Woah, there!" the younger man said. "Slow down, and explain," he ordered.

Sirius chaffed at Charlie's tone, but still managed to settle down enough to blurt out, "Harry had a letter from Flint with him at all times. Maybe we can use to find him. I just hope Harry didn't take it with him and left it in his room."

"And Ron didn't find it," Charlie added solemnly. "By the way, don't go charging out like that. What would've happened if you'd run straight into my mum, or Merlin forbid, Snape? How the hell were you going to explain you had nothing to do with this then?"

Sirius scowled, but couldn't exactly deny the truth of Charlie's words. "What else d'you expect me to do?"

"Stay here," Charlie said. "No, wait, just listen to me. I'll go find the parchment. No one suspects _me. _Let's just keep it that way for a little while longer, all right?"

The older man sighed, and hung his head. "This is why I hated coming back here," he whispered. "This house brings bad luck. Once again I've gone and made myself completely useless to the person who needs me the most."

Charlie patted him sympathetically on the back, but didn't waste any words. Sirius wasn't in any mood to listen, anyways.

"I'm off, then," he said. "Any clue what the parchment looks like?"

"Folded," Sirius replied at once, "and a bit ragged on the edges. He used to always have it in his trouser pockets. If it's not in any of the drawers, you might want to check his old trousers."

Charlie nodded. "All right." He slipped out of his room, locking it behind him, and took a moment to spell himself clean. He wasn't running any risks, especially not if he ran into Remus again. The entire Order knew how close Sirius and Harry had become in the past few weeks, with the two of them steering clear of everyone else except for Buckbeak, up in the attic. He was the next best suspect, after the man.

He ran into Ron two landings down, having just left his room.

"Hey, Charlie. You seen Harry?"

He frowned. "Nope. Wouldn't he be with you? Or- have you checked the attic?"

His baby brother nodded glumly. "No trace of him anywhere, and Sirius's gone and locked himself in his rooms again. Last I heard Harry was studying with Hermione in the library. Now she's gone and taken a nap and Mum said I shouldn't wake her."

The bottom of his stomach dropped out. It'd been sheer dumb luck he'd caught Snape levitating Harry's unconscious body into Regulus's room and shutting it behind Dumbledore and himself. All the Order'd been told was that Harry had been coerced by Death Eaters into relating some intelligence, and Dumbledore was seeking the aid of his Potions Master to see how deep the deception had run. Tonks had looked confused, while his mother had seemed glad to assign a reason to Harry's apparent moodiness. They hadn't been told just how Harry had been taken in for questioning. Now it looked like Hermione had been the unexpected witness to Snape's wand-happy tendencies, and even his mother was in on it.

"Yeah," he agreed, hoping to Merlin and even Mordred he sounded natural. "Maybe you should go find Ginny, instead. Try not to get caught by the twins, like. And isn't one of your friends coming over- the Longbottom lad?"

Ron scowled. "Neville's useless. Frightened of his own shadow, that one is."

Charlie didn't look impressed. "If you had a harpie like Augusta Longbottom hanging over your shoulder all the time, I think you'd be, too."

Ron wrinkled his nose, but headed downstairs all the same. Once his footsteps were out of earshot, Charlie heaved a sigh in relief. He glanced about him to see no one else was on the landing, before slipping into the room Harry and Ron had shared and shutting the door behind him.

It was easy to see who slept where. Ron's side was an utter mess. For a boy who often complained he never had enough things, his bed was an explosion of stuff. Charlie bit back a laugh. When his mum saw this, she was going to go ballistic. Still, thoughts of his mother quickly sobered him up. He didn't want to think she had known about Snape and Dumbledore, but then why else would she keep Ron away from Hermione? The poor lass had probably been Obliviated and put into a magical sleep for the effects of the Forgetting Charm to sink in, and all because she'd been at the wrong place at the wrong time.

Harry's side, in stark comparison, was neat as a pin. Yes, he hadn't slept there last night, but all of his things were neatly arranged. Even his dirty clothes were separated into tidy piles. He grinned when he spotted the clothes Harry had come in in this morning and decided to do the younger boy a favour and Scourgify them. They were the first set he rummaged through, to no avail. Charlie guessed that the clothes still in the trunk were clean. He looked through a couple other pairs of trousers and came up empty. Then he tried the table drawers. There was nothing personal in them, except for Sirius's mirror. He pocketed that, just in case.

Charlie was about to leave, having assigned this a lost cause, when he saw another pair of trousers hanging on one of the notches on the back of the door. He quickly ransacked the pair and muffled a triumphant yell when he came up with a wrinkled scrap of parchment folded over and over, its edges torn. He slipped it inside his shirt and ducked back out into the corridor, casting one more quick Scourgify on himself. He was headed back towards the stair when a familiar voice caused him to stop in his tracks.

"Charlie?"

He slowly turned, careful not to let his face reflect anything he felt.

"Remus," he said.

The old werewolf looked torn. "Was what I did right?" he asked weakly. "It was Flint I smelt all over Harry- _Marcus __Flint, _Charlie. Back in Third-Year, all he'd wanted was to harm Harry. And Harry- he's a good lad. Why would he be taken in by anything Flint had to say to him? There's no way Harry could've gone to him on his own." He looked at him as if for answers. "Charlie, Harry was in your room last night. Did he mention anything?"

The redhead grimaced. "Fraid not," he said glibly, "I sleep like a log. Once I'm out- I'm out. He was in his bed when I saw him last, and I didn't even wake till Mum came banging on my door this morning. _That, _even I can't sleep through."

Remus gave him a pale smile. "Molly did mention something about that," he admitted. "I suppose Sirius must have let slip how he used to get in and out of Grimmauld while they were grooming Buckbeak up in the attic," he mused. "That's Sirius's old room you're staying in, you know?" For a moment there Remus didn't look as if he were smiling at the man in front of him, but rather at the memories he had of times past. "Harry- he and Ron haven't been getting along lately, but they've been friends ever since they entered Hogwarts. Nothing's going to change that, I'm sure. They'll be true to each other, them and Hermione both."

Charlie quickly bid Remus good day and fled back upstairs, badly shaken. Sirius might have been haunted by ghosts of the past, but clearly Remus was the one seeing their shades in the present. Everyone in the Order knew the story of the four Marauders and the one that had proven to be false. Charlie wasn't sure if it was wilfulness or tiredness that caused the old werewolf to be blind towards the blatant rifts in the Golden Trio. Hermione had obviously been torn between Ron and Harry, but she'd been leaning towards Harry when she'd been attacked. And Ron…Charlie hated to say this about his baby brother, but Ron was painfully petty. Perhaps it was being the youngest son without being the baby of the family; anyhow, he was plain unable to look past his brothers' achievements to see his own. Apparently Ron had decided Harry should be his claim-to-fame, although after having heard last year's fiasco, Charlie had to admit he was surprised Harry hadn't ditched Ron first chance he'd got. Talk about fairweather! And then to treat Harry again so abysmally, after what had happened at the Last Task; Hermione, at least, looked like she'd recanted her decision earlier this year. But Ron really was pigheaded sometimes.

At least now it was clear that Dumbledore hadn't discovered the connection between Harry and Flint, or that anyone else had noticed the ring Harry'd been wearing. That in itself was curious, and he wondered if the ring had enchantments of its own that prevented those with cause to harm their wearer from seeing it. Those raised in their roots would at least know what that had represented, and the importance of such a bond to the old-fashioned Purebloods, even if they did number largely from the Dark. Dumbledore and Snape would have been hard-pressed to defend their diagnosis of mind control to a panel of Conservatives, even among those with Light alignments.

He reached his room and unlocked it before slipping in. Sirius was up like a shot. "What took you so long?" he growled, scowling.

Charlie ignored the man's ire. "I ran into Ron on the way there and Remus on the way back." He glanced up to see Sirius's response to the mention of his old friend. The man didn't disappoint; his countenance immediately turned black, although he didn't speak out against him. "Look, Sirius," he tried, "Remus didn't mean it, all right? He honestly thought he was doing the right thing. And given what Flint tried to do to Harry in his Third-Year, given how that's Remus's last memory of their interaction- well, he knew Harry wouldn't go anywhere with that Flint without a fight."

"But that's just the thing," Sirius said, sounding helpless. "How can he know Harry so well, and yet not know him at all? He had a whole year with the lad, knew how his mind worked- and he heard as much as I did about last year. Harry can break the _Imperius, _for Merlin's sake. And- _ach, _I sound like such a prat, but _he's Harry bleeding Potter. _What else can't he do? If he can't even be controlled by the Imperius, did Remus honestly think he'd be susceptible to another mind-controlling curse, or even a potion?"

Charlie frowned. "Think he noticed the ring?"

Sirius started. "It wouldn't matter even if he had," he breathed in realisation. "Remus- as a werewolf, he grew up almost completely outside the system. He always had other worries growing up, as did his parents, and they died young, too. He wouldn't have understood what it meant even if he had noticed." Sirius shook his head to dispell his thoughts. "That's enough. Did you get the letter?"

Charlie grinned, and whipped it out of his pocket. "Yep," he said, "and found this, too." He pulled out the mirror. "Figured it might come in handy later, if we're ever separated."

Sirius nodded absently at it. "Good idea," he said, plucking the parchment from Charlie's hands and unfolding it. "We don't know yet what's our next move-" He started at the sight of the writing on the parchment, and squinted, turning it this way and that.

"You sure this is it?"

Charlie scowled and snatched it back. "It was the only- oh. I see what you mean. This is a weird-arse love letter."

All the parchment had on it was -

_Harry? What's going on? Where are you? _

_Harry, bloody hell, you'd better write me back right now!_

_I swear, if you don't reply me now, I'm finding my way back there, Fidelius or not be damned, and blowing it to pieces till I find you!_

"Wait," Charlie realised. "'Write me back'- this is a two-way parchment!" He glanced up eagerly at Sirius. "Flint's on the other side this right now!"

The man was still frowning at the words. "He knows about the Fidelius?" It sounded like he still hadn't quite made up his mind about the other boy.

Charlie waved his concerns away. "He still doesn't know where Grimmauld is. Remember, he walked Harry back here. I imagine that's how he realised it was under the Fidelius, but without being told the Secret by Dumbledore, he won't be able to find his way in. We're safe inside the house. What we need to do now is ask him if he's got a way of tracking Harry."

Sirius closed his eyes, and inhaled slowly. When he exhaled, his eyes opened and they were a glittering, hard diamond. "Whatever it takes to get my godson back," he said, and pulled out a quill. Then he began to write.

* * *

><p>Harry was glaring as fiercely as he could manage at both Snape and Dumbledore, but it honestly didn't help much now that he was gagged and trussed up like a bloody chicken, his feet beneath him and his hands twisted behind his back. After both Snape and Dumbledore's attempts to break into his mind had failed, the next thing they'd tried was Veritaserum. Thankfully that had proved moot, too. He could still the taste the lingering bitter aftertaste of the potion under his tongue.<p>

"Headmaster," Snape suddenly said, "are his bindings still in place?"

Harry had to control his reaction quite finely. That stinking greasy git of a bastard! He'd known! They'd both known! The two pieces of shit were in this together! Marcus really was right about everything, right up to their binding his magic for their own bloody schemes! He tried to reach out to his ring again, but he could only recognise its presence, and not channel any of his own magic through. A new level of hatred fuelled his glare as Dumbledore cast a diagnostic spell at him, and his face went grave at the results.

"I'm afraid you were right to suspect this, Severus," Dumbledore said. "All of the blocks previously placed on him have been broken." The old coot frowned, and twiddled with his wand a bit. "It seems like the same thing blocking his mind from us is also stopping me from placing another block. Thankfully for the time being, at least, it seems that he is unable to access his magic." Dumbledore looked drained. "How do we deal with this now, Severus? Are there any rituals you know of that would have caused such an effect? And how would we go about reversing such an effect?"

Snape shook his head. "I'm afraid not, Headmaster. But the Dark Lord is a master at inventing such rituals. He could have easily come up with one that would have removed the prat's blocks, as well as turned him fully against the Light."

Dumbledore appeared sorrowful. "Given time, I am sure I could find a way to circumvent that. Perhaps it might not be a bad thing to allow him access to his magic. At least then Voldemort would be out of the way, and we could resume testing in a controlled environment-"

Harry had never wanted to kill anyone before, but if he could have wished it, both Snape and Dumbledore would have dropped dead at that very moment and he would have borne the marks on his conscience proudly.

* * *

><p>"Flint?"<p>

"Black! Where the hell is Harry!"

"Why the hell were you stupid enough to leave your trace on him!"

"You-"

_"Enough!" _Charlie roared, getting between the two men and shoving them apart with a thrust of his heavy shoulders. Flint might have been more muscular, but Charlie was used to hauling things easily twice his weight around, and Sirius barely weighed enough to count as a thing. They were at Barnard Park again, although thankfully it was empty. Then again, it wouldn't be difficult for the park to be empty, given how dreary it looked. _"None _of this is helping Harry! So will the two of you stop wanking around and come up with some kind of plan already!"

Sirius glowered at the youngest of their group. "I still say he should've known to spell them clean. He should've known Remus was around-"

"Who the fuck is Remus?" Flint demanded irritably. Then his eyes sharpened. "If he's that son of a bitch who got Harry into this mess-"

"No, wait," Sirius cut in scathingly, "that would be _you." _

"Stop it!" Charlie snapped. "Sirius, you know as well as I do that Flint could have no knowledge of this, not when he knows nothing about where we stay or who we live with. And we didn't think to ask Harry to Scourgify himself, either, so lay off, all right? Now, can we do this properly, or am I going to have to send you both to a corner and talk to you separately? But I've got to warn you lot, that the longer we take squabbling about this the longer it'll take for us to get to Harry. And Merlin knows what the two bloody bastards are doing to him to pry whatever secrets you have, Flint, out of him."

The boy abruptly groaned and brought a hand to his forehead. "He told me nothing that could have compromised your position," he confessed. "But I told him where our alignment stood. I had to, to get him to trust me. It was the only way I could get him out from under Dumbledore's bloody long nose. I should never have let him go back."

"How did you know he was in trouble?" Charlie asked, curious.

Flint glanced at him, pistachio eyes gleaming. "You know we bonded?"

Charlie nodded, showing no outward reaction. "Yes. Both of us- we saw your ring."

Flint frowned. "Weasleys- you don't have family traits, do you? But surely, the Blacks-"

Sirius snorted. "Unless you count being able to destroy anything you touch," he said bitterly. Charlie didn't like the considering way Flint was studying the older man, and quickly intervened. "What is it about family traits?" he asked. "And no, the Weasleys don't have any. The Prewitts used to; there'd never been a family with more twins than them, but the last of the line were Uncles Fabian and Gideon. Mum hoped Fred and George would be the same, but-" He shrugged, making a face.

"Flints have a trait of mind magics," Flint explained. "That's how I knew what Harry wasn't safe." He glared accusingly at them. "You know they had his magic bound? When we bonded the binding broke, but he still can't tap into his magic. He's fucking defenceless facing them right now. It was bound too long for him to adjust to it so easily so it's stored with me at the moment-" he raised the hand wearing an identical ring to Harry's to illustrate, "-but he can't use any of it. I can feel him _trying _to use his magic, and failing. They probably took his wand first chance they got. I can also feel them _trying _to legilimens his mind, and failing. They've tried Veritaserum, too. We don't have much longer till they start using a more physical means."

Flint straightened to his full height of six-foot-four, bracing his large shoulders menacingly. "Now. I suggest, you take me back to wherever the hell your mouldy little hideout is and watch me burn it to the ground- preferably with those fucking bastards still inside."

"Veritaserum?" Charlie repeated weakly. _"Legilimens?" _

Sirius wouldn't meet Flint's eyes. "There are...persons inside. Children, who had no idea. They don't deserve-"

"Let _me _decide what they do or do not deserve," Flint hissed. "Trust me, I am much, _much _better than those pathetic gimmicks they're submitting Harry to."

Sirius stared at him for a moment longer, obviously torn. "I said whatever it takes," he whispered, and then held out a scrap of parchment to the boy. Flint took it, frowning.

"What is this? 'The secret is at'-" He jerked his head up at Sirius. "The Fidelius. You're as good as breaking it, by giving me the secret." Charlie seemed equally stunned.

Sirius pressed his lips in a tight line. "Whatever it takes," he repeated, "to get my godson back." He glanced at the redhead standing beside them. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "All I'm asking is that the children not be harmed."

The look Flint gave them was frighteningly perceptive. "We will enter the premises with a mind to incapacitate, not kill," the boy said. Then he stepped to one side and gave a short bow, holding the scrap of parchment from Sirius out. "My Lord."

Sirius and Charlie started back when an unknown teenager appeared from right behind Flint's shadow, followed by a whole host of characters, familiar and unfamiliar both. Perhaps most striking would be Sirius's cousin and her husband, and son. But Sirius's eyes went straight to the equally imposing man standing behind Flint, whose bulk represented what the boy would one day grow into.

"Marcellus Flint," he rasped, and then cleared his throat.

The man smiled briefly, with very little brevity.

"You should not be unfamiliar with our ways, Cousin," Narcissa drawled, seemingly unconcerned with the tension lining the man's shoulders. "There is very little we would do with family." She seemed to detect Sirius was on the verge of adding something, and smiled very much like an adder about to strike. "But then again, you've never regarded us as family, have you? _Cousin?" _

There had never been truer words spoken with more poison. Sirius swallowed thickly, unable to look away from Narcissa's glacial eyes, so like his own.

The strange teenager was reading the script. "This is near Morland Mews," he murmured. "It isn't far from here." His dark blue eyes cut to Sirius. "Will the wards detect Apparition so close?"

There was something oddly familiar about this boy, but Sirius had enough sense to answer without question. This was one mystery he could do quite without the answer.

"There's an alley right behind the street-"

"Show it to me," the boy ordered.

Somehow, Sirius didn't think he met Side-Apparating him. He thought as hard as he could of the grungy little alley, and knew he'd succeeded when the boy grimaced with distaste. He was surprised, though. He wouldn't have though legilimency would have meant more pain on his part. Sirius hadn't expected such finesse from a teenager. Unless- Flint had mentioned his family trait of mind magics. Perhaps this boy was from one of the removed branches? Maybe that was why he bore so little resemblance to father and son-

There was tiny smile of amusement curling about Marcellus's lips.

The strange teenager was frowning in concentration, but what he was concentrating on, neither Sirius nor Charlie could tell. At least not until some of the weaker in the group hissed and grabbed for their left forearms. The two lone Order members froze in horror.

"I've changed your Apparition point to that alley. Marcellus, disseminate this." The boy handed over the scrap of paper to the man, who read it carefully, before folding it and slipping it in his pocket. But none of the others looked confused about the location. Sirius stared. Just how did Marcellus-

"Meet me there," the boy ordered, before Disapparating with a near-inaudible_ pop!_ Once again, both Sirius and Charlie were surprised. The louder the crack, the less skilled the wizard. Likewise, the softer the crack, the more power and control one had over their Apparition. The boy was followed by the rest of the group, one after another, each with muted cracks, but none as soft as his.

"That was Voldemort?" Sirius whispered.

Narcissa looked at him without pity. "Now do you understand? You would never have won. Not when we had them both."

Sirius glared at her for her assumption. "Harry isn't yours!" he snapped.

"He's _mine," _the boy Flint growled out, interrupting them both, "and if anything _else _happens to him because the two of you are dawdling here squabbling like children, you will answer to _me." _

Charlie hurriedly grabbed Sirius's arm and Apparated them away before the last Black could say anything more. Narcissa sniffed and turned away when Flint turned to her, pointedly. Quickly, they were the last two to Disapparate.

* * *

><p>Dumbledore and Snape were staring down at him like scientists over a specimen. Harry didn't like the way it made him feel. He suspected this was what animals felt like right before dissection.<p>

"Everything we have is sliding right off," Dumbledore murmured. "It's like there are no longer any catch-holds to his mind. Severus, the serums-"

The younger man shook his head. "We've already dosed him to the maximum. There isn't anything stronger than Veritaserum. No one's been proven to be able to resist it, and no counter-serum has been brewed yet. Veritaserum is far too new of a substance for anyone to have found a way to circumvent it."

Dumbledore narrowed his eyes keenly. "And if we continue to up the dosage?"

Snape started. "There is a very real possibility that such would poison him without any effect."

The headmaster sighed. "Did you have to make this so difficult on yourself, Harry?" he asked, sounding almost mournful. "All we are trying to do is help. If you would just but tell us-"

Harry was very close to spitting nails at that moment. Even the doddering old bastard wasn't that blind.

"Very well. Severus," Dumbledore intoned solemnly, "we will have no choice but to try."

"Headmaster," Snape said slyly," might I suggest we try using a little more..._physical _means to break the boy? After all, he's been well-trained at the Muggles' house."

If Harry could just reach a single thread of his magic, he would have gladly expended it wringing the greasy git dry of every last drop of oil in his body.

"Such exertion must always be our last resort," Dumbledore said with a sagacious, practiced air of one who'd said it a thousand times before.

"Very well." By Merlin's hairy bollocks, Snape was actually pouting in disappointment. Harry was disgusted.

Dumbledore began to pace in front of him, eyes never leaving his. Harry could feel him trying again and again, from this angle and that, but no effect ever took place. He wanted to sneer at the barmy old codger.

"What about Obliviation?" Dumbledore suddenly asked. Harry couldn't keep his eyes from widening in shock. They hadn't tried that yet, but now that Dumbledore had suggested it- "If we could Obliviate him to the point of remembering what he had told Flint while he was not yet under the boy's influence?"

Thankfully, Snape looked doubtful. "A long shot, Headmaster. We don't know for sure when Potter and Flint's communications evolved into something more. If we find ourselves removing too much from his memory-"

Dumbledore's eyes were hard. "Better too much than to leave things the way they are," he said crisply.

_Ohgodohgodohgodohgodohgod. _To his shame, he felt tears biting and tried viciously to hold them back. He refused to be reduced any lower than he already was. Harry tried to twist himself into an upright position, glaring as fiercely as he could manage at the two bastards. The wandtip pointed straight between his eyes was pitiless.

_ "Obliviate."_

* * *

><p>I really need to find another plot device (o; Two cliffhangers in a row. Do try not to hate me that much. We're much closer to the end than I originally thought; this piece will come up to sixteen chapters instead of the original eighteen, with a possible epilogue. Thank you all so much for the response thus far (o: And do review!<p> 


	12. Chapter 12

**Anybody's Hero **

Rating: M

Summary: At the Wizengamot, Harry finds himself having a battle of wits with a very different opponent instead: Marcus Flint. Warnings for slash. Marcus/Harry.

For my 300th reviewer from **To Bedlam and Partway Back** , Lone-Angel-1992. I'm so sorry it took a whole bleeding year. But thanks ever so much for believing I'd come out with it in the end (o:

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, nor the lyrics of the Morrissey song the title comes from.

* * *

><p><span>Chapter Twelve<span>

Marcus stared up at the large Gothic townhouse for the first time. It was done up in the same style as numbers eleven and thirteen, but a more sinister air hung about it, permeating the very atmosphere. His father glanced at him knowingly.

"It is the use of Dark Arts that has been wrongly cast, which lingers," Marcellus told him quietly.

Marcus felt his lip curl. Walburga Black really was incompetent. She might have wanted to dedicate her family to the Dark, but had clearly lost her mind to it instead. In a way, that was why there were so few of them left. The Dark came with its own fair share of dangers, more so than the Light, and was deeply treacherous, and the Blacks had long prided themselves on being the Dark's harbingers of destruction. But Walburga had had no right to play with magics she had no ability to control. It was a disservice to their nature as much as to their magic when she had destroyed not only her mind, but the warp and weft of the wards she had tried to create. No wonder she had completely lost her marbles.

Black sidled up beside them. "Try not to hit the attic, will you," he muttered. "Our hippogriff is up there."

Marcus stared at him, incredulous that someone would actually keep a ruddy _hippogriff _in a townhouse attic, but he could feel that Black was telling the absolute truth. From Weasley, he was getting anxiety over not only his family, but Harry as well. The redhead was clearly torn in two, even if he was a willing participant in this sentencing.

"Are the wards up yet?" he voiced aloud.

Beside him, Marcellus glanced around, forefingers resting against his temple in an absent habit (1). "They're up," he said. "Blast its top off."

He didn't need to be told twice. "Excidium (2)!" he snapped, and the brick roof shattered off, dropping shingles all over the front step and destroying the porch. From the exposed attic, a hippogriff screeched and reared, flaring its steel grey wings, before taking flight.

As if his spell was some kind of sign, a barrage of multicolour spells slammed into the facade of the townhouse, causing Black to wince.

_Cover the exits, _he heard his father's voice in his mind. Already some of their own were spreading out through the yard, some disappearing round the back where he heard more yells. Finally, persons came pouring through the front, having precious little other choice now that the back entrance and Floo were blocked, and Anti-Apparition and -Portkey wards had been erected. Marcus swore when he noticed who was coming through first. For the love of Merlin, did the Light honestly think they would have mercy on the children emerging first? If anything it was the Light that were merciless to subject their children to such treatment. The Dark would have never put their young into such danger. He glanced sideways at the Carrows, and together they worked in tandem to take the group down in a flash of scarlet-colour Stunners. He was aware of the spike of anxiety from Weasley, but he ignored it and the feeling subsided once he gestured for Draco and some of the lesser followers to move the Stunned children out of the way.

Stunning the children had barely given them any lag, and only served to further enrage the Weasley matron, who thundered out with a wounded bellow, wand raised and her peplum skirts swirling about her thick angles. It was Narcissa Malfoy who stepped forward to engage her, the first signs of interest stirring on her fair face. Marcus sighed and shook his head at the budding sense of euphoria he felt from her. For them, the Blacks, nothing was more addictive than destruction itself. And even if Molly Weasley was no true match for her, Narcissa would have her fun toying with her prey. He glanced sideways at the other Black standing stiff at his side. Judging by the ill look on his face, Black knew exactly what Narcissa was feeling. That passionate euphoria was in his blood, and yet Marcus could feel his permissive disgust. It was clear to him that the man had never experienced that selfsame euphoria his family was so renowned for. A queer Black, to be certain, if there ever was one.

He looked to his father. "Have you found anything?" he asked quietly. Technically he didn't need to speak aloud at all, but just like Marcellus's habit of bringing his fingers to his temple, they had their little quirks that gave them the appearance of being much more vulnerable than they truly were.

_His mind isn't present at all, _came his father's reply. _Either he is unconscious or he is not here. I doubt he is seriously wounded or even dead. Dumbledore would not be fool enough to risk it, and you would feel it. _

Marcus grit his teeth and firmly turned his mind away from such thoughts.

_Ah. _He felt his father's dawning realisation. _Ware the second floor. They are coming._

Snape exploded out of the second-storey window, stained teeth bared and wand thrust forward, but the truly dangerous one was the bloody old bastard with his twinkling eyes and- were those _sphinxes _on the hem of his robes? Marcus shoved the thought to the back of his mind as he confronted the younger of the two. Dumbledore was his Lord's, and true enough, his fellow faithful parted to make way for the old, slim form of their Lord. Both Dumbledore and Snape reared back in surprise, and Marcus smirked. He knew the latter, and therefore the former, had not been privy to any news apart from his Lord's return last year. They knew nothing of the miracles he had wrought since then.

"Tom!" He started at the sharp shock that echoed in his ears and his head and turned to blink in surprise at the stunned form of his old Transfiguration teacher. She was staring with blatant disbelief at his Lord. He frowned, wondering how McGonagall had recognised their Lord at a glance.

"Hello, _Minnie." _The Dark Lord winked at her, twiddling his fingers in greeting at her direction, and- good Merlin, she _blushed. _Marcus really did not want to think about that right now.

"Minerva, stand back," Dumbledore ordered, openly showing his drawn wand. "That is no longer the fellow student you once knew." He stared sharply at his Lord's youthful visage. "Or perhaps he was always the case," he whispered harshly.

The Dark Lord laughed in his face. "Still so melodramatic, old man?" He sneered, baring his own wand with a flick of his wrist. "Let's see how well you can dance."

The amount of power in the air was truly stifling as the two lords, one Dark and one Light, engaged each other. McGonagall stood on the sidelines, too stunned to do anything but stare at them both in naked astonishment. The other Lightsiders looked shocked that a mere teenager appeared to be able to hold the great Albus Dumbledore to a magical impasse. Even if Dumbledore and his Lord's Occlumency shields were too strong for him to risk pushing in case he was found out (not like he'd try with the latter, anyway), he could easily read the strain on Dumbledore's aging face, and the heady surge his Lord received from his magic. Marcus didn't need to have to have taken Divination to know which way the wind was blowing, and turned his attention back to Snape.

He'd shot out a silent curse at the man before he landed, but the wily bastard flicked it away and landed with almost envious grace. Snape was a bit of a tricky one, for him. He could read the man's emotions easily, not that he had very many beyond self-loathing and hatred, but he knew Snape was lying to him half the time. Apparently the greasy snitch was one of the rare ones who could actually feign his emotions, which was why he was so valuable as a spy. The bastard had a harder time hiding from his father, of course, but Snape was skilled enough to have thrown them both off a fair number of times.

"Evening, Professor," he purred, almost offhandedly throwing a Peeling Hex at him. "Lovely night out, isn't it?" The man snarled back at him.

Still, Snape was caught and he knew it. There had been nowhere to run inside Grimmauld except out. Snape had long claimed his value to the Dark as a spy in the Light, but all his claims were for nought, now. Besides, Marcus had been aching to kill the son of a bitch for a long time. Snape came from the Prince line- his roots were just as Dark as the Blacks, and infinitely crueller, with his mother Eileen having been the lone exemption. And yet he was refusing every single one of them, distorting his lineage, perverting his roots, like a werewolf in sheep's clothing. He was unlike Black, who never felt his family's urges. Snape felt them, but turned his back on each and every one of them. In his eyes that made the man worse than both Walburga and Bellatrix combined. Marcus wondered how the bastard had survived, and for so long.

"Flint," his old Head-of-House hissed at him. "What do you think you're playing at, with the boy!"

He deflected Snape's _Sectumsempra _and flung back a _Confringo. _"You would actually question a Pureblood Binding?" he sneered. Snape couldn't hold back the flicker of surprise and confusion at his words. "Merlin, you don't even know what that is?"

_He recognises the words, but not their significance, _his father's voice remarked in his head. _He is no better than his mongrel upbringing. _Marcus smirked as he ducked a Cutting Curse and nipped in three spells in rapid succession: a tripping jinx, a blasting hex, and a fire curse. He could've thrown in a Cruciatus or a Blood-boiling Curse, but for him, the chase was part of the fun. It was the speed of the spells that were hard to react to, not their effects, even if he'd made sure to cast the bluebell flames.

The distraction worked, and Snape hissed as his bloody billowing robes ignited. They were probably rank with potions fumes that it was probably only sheer dumb luck they hadn't entirely gone up in flames. Marcus grinned at the spike of fear from the man, before grabbing him by his throat with a lunge and slamming him against a nearby trunk so hard he heard the tree groan. He dispelled the bluebell flames with an absent flick, and tightened his hand around the man's stringy neck.

"I'm going to enjoy making you beg," he told his old Head-of-House, curling his powers about them. As Snape began to whimper beneath him, and then cry, Marcus raised his head to take in the rest of the carnage about him.

Narcissa was laughing hysterically as she toyed with the Weasley matron, who was bleeding profusely from large gashes over her limbs. They were nowhere near any major arteries, and looked far deadlier than they actually were. Molly Weasley was barely able to lift her head anymore. It looked like Narcissa had goaded her to the brink of magical exhaustion, all without breaking a sweat. She'd even managed to find the time to take care of her niece, daughter of the Blood Traitor Andromeda, who stared about her at the wreckage with wide, broken eyes. Her tear-stained face looked impossibly young; barely out of Auror Training, then.

Barty was haring around the yard, howling like a mad hyena while tearing Moody's defences to pieces. The embittered auror had been no match for him a year ago, and continued to be no match now. Barty obviously took after his mother's side, sharing with Narcissa the pleasure they garnered from peeling apart their opponents.

He saw MacNair battling his last Defence Professor and hissed, remembering what Black and Weasley had let slip about him. He took in the shabby, almost frail exterior and sneered. That man- if he could be even called that- was pathetic, and nothing compared to the vitality and vigour that was Fenrir Greyback, the wolf residing on the Malfoy grounds and occasionally indulging himself on the white peacocks his hosts bred, much to Lucius's disgust. MacNair looked to be gaining the upper hand, even if Lupin's spellwork was quick and feisty. But the werewolf had little stamina, and was waning, quickly. If Black hadn't intervened at that moment, Stunning them both, it was altogether possible MacNair might have killed the wolf. Marcus didn't care. He certainly wouldn't miss the bastard, and already hated him for landing his Harry in such a quagmire to begin with.

It appeared that the oldest Weasley was much tougher than he appeared, as he was still holding Lucius at an impasse. His array of spellwork was extremely varied and creative, and given time, Arthur Weasley might have even worn his opponent down. It was making the Malfoy Lord obviously irritated, causing Marcus to snort at the showing of the famed fraying Malfoy temper. Their Veela ancestors had been truly spectacular in their day, conjuring tempests and gales to convey their emotions, but now only a trickle of their flame remained, usually on display at the Wizengamot. There was a reason why Bellatrix had stood at the Dark Lord's right hand while Lucius had to contend with his politicking.

One of the Carrows swooped past and Stunned Weasley, putting Lucius out of his misery. It seemed Arthur Weasley would live to die another day. Marcus sincerely doubted Lucius appreciated Carrow doing him the favour.

And of course, right in the middle of things, Dumbledore and their Lord battled on, a sly smile playing about the Dark Lord's lips, his flippancy obviously earning the old man's ire. Their Lord didn't even look to be trying anymore, as compared to the old man's bombastic arm-flailings.

Marcus felt his father approach him from behind, and turned to look at him questioningly. There was an unbridled sneer on his lips. _This one doesn't deserve to die, _his father said about Snape, _he deserves much worse. He let your Harry live the life he did at the Muggles- would have subjected him to more, all to pry the information out of him. You were right; they could touch nothing of his mind. The next best thing, obviously, was his body. _

He didn't even know when he'd started growling, his empathy lashing about him, until Snape's cries turned into full-fledged wails. Marcus snarled and threw the man savagely to the ground. Snape was no threat now, not like this.

"Did they touch him?" he demanded.

Marcellus's eyes were glazed as he pored through the broken man's mind. _No, _he murmured, _they did not get the time to-_ His father's pistachio gaze abruptly sharpened, and Marcus felt dread that was all his own pool in his belly. _They did try to Obliviate him. The attack came right after. They have no clue whether they succeeded. Snape shoved the boy into a cupboard-_

A spell sailed past them, obviously some derivative of the _Excidium _he'd cast earlier, and slammed into the body of the house.

"No!" he screamed, but his cries were lost in the noise of the crumbling brick and mortar as Grimmauld came tumbling down, almost in slow-motion. There was nothing he could have done. In two minutes all that was left of the townhouse was a half-standing mound of rubble.

"Harry," he heard Black rasp from beside him, "Harry!"

Black ran for the entrance, and Weasley joined him, but Marcus just stood there stock-still, too astonished by what had just happened to move.

"Can you still feel him?" his father demanded, urgency moving his lips instead of his mind.

Marcus sighed in relief when he recognised that yes, their bond was still active, and Harry seemed to be largely unharmed. That last spike of alarm he felt from their link must have been the fucking Obliviate, then. The bottom of his stomach dropped out. Merlin, if it'd worked-

"He's still alive," he croaked, "and he doesn't really seem to be hurt." Marcus looked helplessly at the ruins of Grimmauld. "Thing is, I just don't know how that's possible with _that." _He turned to his father. "Is there any way they could have Apparated him out, somehow? I remember Harry said Grimmauld wasn't connected to the Floo, so it couldn't have been that way."

Black had returned by then, the worry turning his handsome face haggard. He shook his head. "I know these wards inside out. There was nothing they could have added without my knowing it."

Lucius had come over in time to overhead those last remarks. "This is Albus Dumbledore we're talking about." Speaking of the old man, he'd eventually succumbed to a reflected Stunner cast into a shard of broken glass. He'd never seen it coming, not from that reflected angle. The Dark Lord had rapidly worked to bind his magic after that, not hesitating to Stun McGonagall when the woman finally began to react.

Black shook his head again, insistent. "I would have felt it."

Marcus could feel Black's certainty and wondered, if maybe the Black family traits might not have branched out a little bit.

"But where could he be?" Weasley asked helplessly, casting a lost look over his shoulder. It was the same question Marcus was asking himself, especially considering how there was barely enough of Grimmauld left standing for anyone to hide behind.

"Bloody stinking git!" Black suddenly growled, and kicked Snape solidly in the gut. The man choked and doubled over on the ground. "Where the hell is Harry. Where the hell is he?"

His father stepped between them. "Don't waste your time fielding questions to this one. He's useless. His only objective was ever to finish what he considered Lily Potter's last work, the defeat of the Dark Lord." He shot Black a cutting glance before the other man could interrupt. "Don't think yourself completely blameless either, Black," he said bitingly. "He would never have sunk this low if you and your lot hadn't turned the Mudblood against him." Marcellus dismissed Black's suddenly weary visage and looked down at the curled, snivelling cretin at their feet. For that alone Snape had included betraying every instinct his family gave to him, and using the boy, even going so far as to protect him, because they all believed he was the means to their desired end.

Snape had cared nothing for Harry, in fact resented him for surviving where Lily Potter hadn't. Marcus could feel the information surging through his mind as his father fed him all the bastard knew. Snape had blamed Harry for being the impetus behind the Potters going into hiding in the first place, ignoring the fact that it had been he who had leaked the prophecy to the Dark Lord in the first place, which had ultimately led to Lily Potter's death.

Lucius frowned. "But Severus was the one who told the Dark Lord of the-" He snapped his mouth shut before he could add anything else, warned by the threatening aura Marcus exuded. "Never mind," Lucius added, sounding strained. "Suffice to say if anyone were to blame for that day, it would have been Severus himself."

Marcus growled. "That doesn't help us at all-"

They were interrupted by a shout.

"Hey!" It was Draco, staring at the hippogriff, who'd landed with a clatter of hooves and claws among the rubble. "Isn't that the bloody creature that nearly tore my arm off?"

Black shoved his way in front of it. "You leave Buckbeak alone, you simpering littl-"

"Your damn _thing _nearly cost my son his _life!" _Lucius hissed, shoving Black back.

"That's the hippogriff that escaped from Ministry custody, isn't it?" MacNair muttered, hand grasping for the axe at his waist he didn't have. As it was, he was already fingering his wand.

"Flint!" Black snapped at him. "You get your bloody gits to leave my hippogriff alone! Since Harry _rescued _him, you can be sure he'll be pissed as hell to see anything happen to him!"

"Will the lot of you just shut up!" he snapped, sending out a wave of fear that had them all quaking. "Merlin." He huffed and looked a way, running a ragged hand through his hair. Honestly, he could care less for the bloody thing. They had more important things to do- like find Harry, in case the bloody dogfather had forgot!

The hippogriff, showing it had more sense than the rest of the lot, ignored their squabbling and was instead pawing at the rubble. It screeched, pawed some more, and then screeched again. It was contributing to his building headache, and Marcus was off half a mind to kill it right there and then.

"What the fuck is it doing?" he snapped. "Black, get the damn thing to shut the fuck up! I can't think with the racket it's making."

Black shot him a dark look, but sought to approach the creature anyways. However, his shushing seemed to be ineffective. Weasley tried, too, but the creature ignored them both, continuing to shriek as it clawed at the ruins.

"Hey." Now Marcus was off half a mind to kill the bloody littlest Malfoy, too, for starting the lot of this. "Isn't that- it's digging it out. The brute's digging out- Father. Father, that's a Vanishing Cabinet, isn't it? We saw them at Borgin & Burke's-"

Thoughtlessly Black turned into his Animagus form, of the enormous black dog he'd seen with Harry at Diagon that day, ducking in between the hippogriff's front claws and stuck his nose inside the cupboard ruins, before changing back. "That's the last place Harry was," he confirmed, ignoring the shocked and startled looks he was receiving from some of their Lord's faithful. "I can smell him all over Regulus's room, but inside the cabinet is where his scent is the strongest." Black sighed, and ran a hand through his long hair. "At least it didn't smell like he was hurt."

From behind them, the Dark Lord laughed. "Good lord," he cackled derisively, "the _hippogriff _is smarter than you lot!"

"Regulus's room is where they kept Harry," Weasley inserted quickly.

He glanced at his father. "They shoved Harry in a cupboard. Do you think-"

Marcellus shrugged. "It could not hurt to check. Snape did not know where the other was, as he was not the one who purchased it. And I very much doubt the one who did will be any more obliging." He slanted a look towards the unconscious Dumbledore, scoring Draco along the way but uncaring when the boy flinched. "Borgin & Burke's, you said?"

"I'm coming with!" Black said immediately, and Marcus rolled his eyes.

"One of you has to keep an eye on the bloody hippogriff before it gets itself killed. Again."

"I'll do it," Weasley said hurriedly, before Black could retort. Shame, then. He could have used the stress relief.

"Don't worry about the rest of us here," the Dark Lord drawled, "we'll just stay here and pretend to be house-elves and clean up the rubbish."

He flushed at the implied reprimand. "My Lord..." he began weakly.

The Dark Lord waved his hand imperiously. "Get on with you," he snapped, although he couldn't quite staunch the curl of pleasure from escaping. "Looks like the Aurors finally showed their faces outside the wards, anyways." The illusory teenager bared his teeth ferociously. "This might be a good work out."

"It's the Ministry, my Lord," Lucius drawled, drawing his wand.

"You'd know so well, wouldn't you, Lucius," Barty jibed, and then cackled when the Malfoy Lord whirled on him with a glare.

"Draco, go with them," Narcissa offhandedly ordered. She was studying her cuticles with a bored, facetious look on her face. "Marcellus, you will be staying, I assume?"

His father gave a quaint half-bow, "Of course, Narcissa. How could I refuse you?"

With his father staying here, and their ability to stay in touch regardless of geographical distance, they'd always be able to know what each other were up to. Marcus bowed low. "Thank you, my Lord," he murmured, before reaching out for Draco to Side-Apparate. He eyed Black keenly. "Borgin & Burke's, Knockturn Alley." With that, he Disapparated away.

* * *

><p>(1) Can I just say that I <em>adore <em>James McAvoy's Xavier? No one who has a future as a bald paraplegic has the right to look that hot /o: Nothing meant against bald persons or paraplegics, it's just...hot damn.

(2) Excidio – the destruction of

Darlings, I'm so sorry that this is late. And och, Harry's fate will remain indeterminate for another week, I'm afraid. I hadn't realised that till I started looking through the edits...my bad (o:

Just a little shoutout to **TsaeDranFiegal**, who won my 300th review competition! Thank you so much everyone for participating so wonderfully, although half the reviews were spammers saying how much they hated cliffhangers, Dumbledore, Snape, and me (o: In that order, of course. Unfortunately, **Tsae,** you've disabled the PM feature on your account so I don't have any way of contacting you. If you do see this this week, please drop me a PM to discuss just what plot bunny we will be hoping to capture. Once again, thanks a lot everyone (o:

And of course, please don't forget to review this time around.


	13. Chapter 13

**Anybody's Hero **

Rating: M

Summary: At the Wizengamot, Harry finds himself having a battle of wits with a very different opponent instead: Marcus Flint. Warnings for slash. Marcus/Harry.

For my 300th reviewer from **To Bedlam and Partway Back** , Lone-Angel-1992. I'm so sorry it took a whole bleeding year. But thanks ever so much for believing I'd come out with it in the end (o:

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, nor the lyrics of the Morrissey song the title comes from.

* * *

><p><span>Chapter Thirteen<span>

Harry was not a happy camper at the moment. He was still trussed up like a fucking chicken, bound and gagged, and to make matter's worse, he'd just had Obliviation attempted on him, _and _he was stuffed in a bloody cupboard. He thought he'd dodged the Obliviation bomb back in Second-Year, and he'd had _quite _enough of this ruddy cupboard business at the age of eleven, thank you very much!

Thankfully though, his bonds were starting to loosen, and he managed to get his ankles loose enough to kick open the cabinet doors. Unfortunately, the sight he was greeted with was _not _the sight he had last seen.

"Bloody hell," he mumbled into his gag, "where the hell even am I?"

It was a room unlike one he'd ever seen before, cavernous, and cluttered to the brim. The only other place he'd seen indoors that was of a similar size was the Great Hall at Hogwarts. Unfortunately, it didn't look like there was a door anywhere near where he was. _I could really use getting these bloody ropes off, _he thought, trying to peer out from the doors. Accidentally pitching forward, he found himself hurtling out of the cabinet and landing heavily on the ground.

_"Oof!" _

Miraculously, the fall seemed to do the trick for his bonds, and Harry discovered he was able to squirm loose.

"That's great," he breathed as he ripped the gag off. He still couldn't use his magic, and he didn't have his wand, but there seemed to be a surplus of things in this room, and he at least had his limbs back. He also had Marcus's parchment in his back pocket, and there was sure to be a quill about somewhere...Harry grinned as he found one lying under a desk right next to him, and swiped it to use, pulling the parchment out of his pocket. When he pulled, though, he found a strange gold necklace stuck to his ring. Harry didn't remember Marcus giving him a necklace, and before the ring he'd never worn any other jewellery, so he supposed it must have gotten stuck to him from inside the cabinet.

Frowning, he tried to pull it off, but only got so far as putting it on the ground before it flew back to his ring, nearly nipping his fingers in the process. Harry studied it for a moment, taking in its garish gold inlay and heavy gemstone face. The insignia behind it looked rather familiar, but for the life of him he couldn't place it. Apparently, he couldn't get rid of it either, so Harry just stuck it back in his pocket. Thankfully, it seemed content to stay there, and stopped getting in his way when he tried to take hold of his parchment. To his dismay, however, when he unfolded the parchment, he found the Marauder's Map instead and swore.

"Isn't anything going to go my way?" he demanded irritably. Surprisingly, the map began to write back.

_Mr. Moony presents his compliments to the Marauders' newest acolyte and begs him to try a little innovation, next time. _

_ Mr. Prongs agrees with Mr. Moony and would like to add that it's Padfoot's fault that Prongslet's grown up to be a little lacking in the creativity department._

_ Mr. Padfoot would like to register his astonishment that Mr. Prongs has any opinion at all. _

_ Mr. Wormtail-_

_ Mr. Prongs and Mr. Padfoot are of the firm opinion that Mr. Wormtail ought to rot in hell, the lying stinking traitor! _

"That- that's impossible." The hand holding the parchment was trembling, but the rest of him wasn't in any better state. He leaned back against the cabinet for support, breathless, his eyes still locked on the four varied handwritings. And the words- that was beyond impossible. The last time the Marauder's Map had responded like this was when Snape had commanded it to reveal itself back in Third-Year. But back then it had been clear the juvenile writing was that of the Marauders' child selves in their Hogwarts years. This writing...these were Marauders who had clear knowledge of all the events of the past years. It was unnerving, to say the least.

Then he realised something else. The Marauder's Map only ever worked in Hogwarts. Harry, together with Ron and Hermione, had tried to make it work on occasion at the Burrow, but the Map had always refused to respond. Did that mean this strange room was at Hogwarts? The size certainly fit, although Harry doubted such a large room could go around existing without anyone ever hearing of it.

"Unless it's like the rest of the castle," he realised aloud, "and moves whenever and wherever it wants."

_Mr. Prongs would just like to add- that's my boy._

_ Mr. Moony thinks it should be fawn. _

_ Mr. Padfoot is proud to call Prongslet his pup. _

_ Mr. Prongs would like to highlight that Prongslet is a _PRONGS-_let, not a mutt. _

_ Mr. Padfoot opines it's a good thing that Prongslet is half Tiger Lily, otherwise he might as well be a mutt. _

_ Mr. Prongs would like to add that as Mr. Padfoot is the son of a literal bitch, he- _

Harry read the words and snorted at the ridiculousness of the situation, before its gravity finally hit him. He could feel his shoulders shaking, but he didn't know it was from laughter or sorrow. He stared numbly down at the words, barely noticing when they blurred as his eyes filled with tears. When he saw the first drop hit though, smudging the ink, he wrenched his head away, letting it thunk heavily against the wood behind him.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, but he didn't know who he was apologising to, and what for. It just hurt, so damn much.

He didn't know how long he sat there, shoulders shaking with the weight of his tears, but eventually he realised he couldn't just sprawl there and cry the entire time. He had to pull himself together, to get the hell out of here, if anything else. He glanced at the parchment to see the line of arguments continue all the way down the sheet, one after another, between Padfoot and Prongs with Moony occasionally trying to play mediator, without much success. Their resident werewolf was much better at inadvertently aggravating the situation. Harry smiled softly. It would've been perfect if the last of the Marauders had been their Tiger Lily, although their arguments were peppered with so many references to his mother that she might as well have been there too. It was enough, Harry thought. Nothing good ever came out of being too greedy.

He sighed, and made to stand, the parchment clutched firmly in his hand, and he spread it out on top of a nearby table. It was still the summer holidays, so the castle was fairly empty, except for some of the faculty and staff. Thankfully the barmy old codger and the greasy git were nowhere to be found. The funny thing was, though, that he couldn't find _himself _on the map. The only thing he could come up with was that the Marauders had never found this room during their time here at Hogwarts.

The map in one hand, Harry began the long trek round the piles of stuff gathered all over the room. It was pretty interesting stuff, little odds and ends that looked like they'd been accumulated over the years Hogwarts had been existence. There certainly was enough things inside to support that claim. He even found a drawer of dusty wands that he was tempted to go through, but figured there'd be little point, given how he had his ring if it really came down to it, and that his magic wouldn't react to a wand anyways. The Lost and Found Room, he mused in his head, never knowing how close he'd come to the truth.

Out of nowhere, a hideously gaudy crown came soaring straight at his ring. Harry barely managed to catch it before it slammed into his hand and broke a few fingers. When he tried to toss it away, it reacted exactly like the necklace and came flying back every time. Harry scowled down at his ring.

"I'm starting to think you're more trouble than you're actually worth," he told it. "If you were lonely, you could've just said so, instead of attracting all sorts of jewellery friends and trying to break my bones along the way."

It didn't answer. Harry wasn't surprised. He chucked the crown in his pocket along with the necklace, although it didn't quite fit so half of the headband stuck awkwardly out of his pocket.

He walked for a while longer, but he didn't know how much time had passed. For all he knew time passed differently in this room, and he could've been walking from anywhere between thirty minutes to three hours. "A broom would be nice," he told the room at large. In the next pile of stuff he walked past, he found a trusty old Cleansweep. Harry grinned and quickly mounted the broom. "There we go," he murmured, rising a good three metres up. What he saw around him, however, made his jaw drop. There was no end in sight to the blood place. Even the Great Hall couldn't compare.

"This is ridiculous!" he exclaimed. "What kind of bloody room doesn't have a bloody door!"

And there it was, just behind the pile of stuff he'd taken his broom from, a white double-doored monstrosity with carved ivory handles. Harry frowned, the inklings of an idea building in his mind.

"I want a five-jet heated bubble bath Jacuzzi," he said. One appeared on the floor, right beneath him. He began to grin.

"I want my Firebolt." With a clatter below, the broom Sirius had gifted him two years ago appeared too, right beside the Jacuzzi. He was forever grateful to Hermione's suggestion to store his broom within the school, not like he'd get to practise during the summer anyways. "This is brilliant."

He landed and swiftly swopped the Cleansweep for his Firebolt, laughing as he soared into the air. It didn't matter how far he flew, or how high; the room kept expanding, and increasing, but the door was always right under him; he was careful not to let thoughts of it slip from his mind. Eventually, though, he supposed he ought to go out and look for Marcus and Sirius and Charlie, even if he had deserved that bit of downtime on his own. The doors to the room opened as he flew down, and flew past, and landed on the corridor outside. However, when he looked back, the door was gone.

"What-" he started. His fists clenched by his sides, one gripping his Firebolt, the other crinkling the parchment of the Marauder's Map. When he glanced down at the crumpled paper in his fist, he found his name had once again appeared in front of a long line of wall along the seventh floor corridor. But all of the curious jabberings of the Marauders was gone, vanished as if they'd never been. Harry felt his heart clench in a feeling not unlike that during his First Year, when he had seen his family for the first time in the Mirror of Erised. The room had given Harry what he'd needed at that time, and while Need wasn't synonymous with Desire, for him, the two were far too close for comfort. He wasn't coming back here, ever again. He wouldn't give in to that temptation. It hurt even more to walk away this time than it did back then.

Harry looked from the Map back to the wall, and then back again. He swallowed against the lump in his throat, and gently folded the parchment together.

"Goodbye," he whispered, and closed his eyes with the final crease.

* * *

><p>Borgin was useless, Burke doubly so. Marcus stood back and allowed Draco to terrorise them, taking cold amusement in the genuine terror they radiated when faced with the thin, pointy-faced git. It helped, he supposed, that Black towered behind him like an executioner exuding an aura of utter fury, with a hood pulled low to hide his face from the public.<p>

There were clear signs that they had been Obliviated after the purchase of the Cabinets, and while his father could have broken the charms with his telepathy, or his Lord with his legilimency, Marcus had none of the former and little of the finesse required for the latter. It looked like they were at a dead end.

There was a sudden spike in his head of pained sorrow that came from nowhere in his vicinity, and he knew it was from Harry. Marcus grit his teeth. It was a sign that the other was alive, yes, but it told him little to nothing of the boy's physical condition. Harry could be stranded in the middle of a lake surrounded by inferi, dying of poison, for all he knew.

"This is a waste of time," he declared coldly across whatever Borgin was about to whimper next.

Black whirled on him immediately. "Then what else do you suggest?" he demanded. "We don't have any more clues, and-"

"Think!" he roared. "For Merlin's sake, _think!" _He began to pace the meagre length of the shop, thinking aloud. "If it wasn't the traitor that had purchase the Cabinet, then it must have been the old bastard. But where would he have left the other piece of the puzzle?" he asked. "What locations were pertinent to him?"

"Hogwarts, or maybe Godric's Hollow," Draco suggested at once, but then his face turned crestfallen. "That's too easy, though. What's the point of putting something at the first place anyone would associate with you?"

"But Hogwarts- the castle itself, the grounds- it's huge. It'd take _months _to fully go through the place room by room, and-" Black groaned, censuring himself midway. "If your parchment is with us, that means Harry must have taken the Map by mistake."

"Map?" Marcus asked.

Black sighed. "It was a map my friends and I made of Hogwarts back in our school days. It had a few…magical properties."

"Was yours the only one?"

Black shook his head slowly. "Wait…Remus– he should still have his."

Marcus growled. "The bastard that got Harry into this mess in the first place-"

"He didn't mean to, all right!" Black snapped hotly. "He thought he was helping Harry-"

"Well, he bloody thought wrong!" he snapped back, furious. "I thought you had your priorities sorted!"

His words froze Black where he stood. "I do," the man rasped in a broken voice. "But that doesn't mean I can sit back and watch you punish him for something he never intended. In his mind you were using Harry, not helping him. He truly thought he was doing the right thing. I'm sure he'll come around, if I speak to him. Besides, if Remus still has his copy of the Map, if we're on the grounds we'll be able to see if Harry's at Hogwarts immediately, not to mention it'll make finding him _tonnes _easier."

Marcus snarled. "This time we go, and we wait for _nothing," _he ordered. Black gulped, before nodding his assent. He didn't bother looking at Draco. He knew the littlest Malfoy would always defer to him here. "Middleton," he told Draco, gesturing for him to take Black along, before Apparating.

They reappeared back at the entrance hall of Middleton, where his Lord was lounging against a black velvet high-backed chair, McGonagall sitting by his side with what looked like a permanent expression of shock etched on her face. His father and the Malfoys lined one side, while the Carrows had taken to wandering about the hall, patrolling as usual. MacNair was off in the back, still covered in blood. Marcus wrinkled his nose in distaste and made a mental note to avoid the man. He would stink more than usual now.

When he saw them, the Dark Lord laughed. "So much for rushing off and playing the hero, Marcus."

He ground his teeth for patience. "My Lord," he acknowledged, with a stiff incline of his head. "I trust your appointment with the Aurors went well." Then he turned to Black. "Go and get the ruddy map."

Thankfully, the man scurried off without another word, although Marcus noticed one of the Carrows detaching themselves from the wall and drifting soundlessly after him.

"It went quite splendidly, thanks," the Dark Lord replied casually, which he knew was an implied rebuke. He bobbed his head in apology to his Lord, but was distracted almost immediately by Lucius.

"Borgin & Burke's was a dead end?" the Malfoy lord asked delicately. Marcus glowered at him.

Black came storming back, a piece of parchment clenched in his fist, and his expression thunderous.

"What did you do to Remus!" he demanded. McGonagall, perched on the edge of her seat, flinched.

Marcus rolled his eyes. "Just be grateful we didn't let MacNair get to him," he drawled, pursing his lips at the jolt of excitement he got from the man at that.

Narcissa sighed. "How plebeian."

"Shut up and give me the damn map and let's go find him," he ordered before Black could snap at his cousin.

"And how were you thinking of getting into Hogwarts?" the Dark Lord asked sweetly; that was, if he could do sweet. As it was, he sounded like death incarnate.

Marcus turned to look at Draco. "We'll use him," he said, shrugging. The blond in questioned blanched, while Lucius looked furious.

McGonagall rose shakily to her feet. "I will take you past the wards," she intoned, "if you will do nothing but bring Potter through them." Her mouth was trembling, but her pale green eyes were firm.

He could sense Black's surprise at their old professor's choice, but he could also sense the emotional turmoil writhing inside of her. Her world view had been badly shaken by the findings of today, and she was no longer sure where to turn. But to bring a student home safe- that much she knew was right; that much she knew she could do. Marcus respected her that much, and inclined his agreement.

"So...you don't need me anymore, right?" Draco wheedled, sliding off to the side behind where his father stood. Marcus rolled his eyes and let him go; McGonagall abruptly sharpened her gaze at him and he squeaked.

"It's good to know some things don't change," she said, causing him to snort and Black to bark out his hoarse laughter. Surprisingly, the Dark Lord's laugh joined theirs, although Lucius was visibly less than pleased, not that he would go against their Lord. Narcissa looked breezily unconcerned by it all.

They Apparated outside the Hogwarts wards, with McGonagall leading the way in. No one spoke the entire time as they crossed the wards, but as they passed them, Black began to sidle up to their old professor. Marcus could feel the questioning wonder exuding from the man, overlapping with the worry bleeding from his form. From McGonagall he could feel her tiredness beginning to creep up upon her; not a tiredness of the body, but of the soul. She had seen far too many things in her lifetime, and this could very well be her breaking point. Marcus was a little surprised by the vague worry he felt at that realisation. He had never more than a faint awareness of the woman all his years at Hogwarts, although there was something painful and poignant about the aged expression in her pale green eyes, and the drooping line of her shoulders.

"Minerva," Black began, "you knew that boy back there. Voldemort. And- and you called him by name. His previous name- not that stupid moniker-"

The woman eyed him coldly. "You knew he was You-Know-Who anyway and gave him the Secret to the Fidelius."

Black flinched at the accusation, but didn't back down. "Did you even know what Dumbledore and Snivellus were doing to Harry in that room?" he demanded. "Veritaserum and legilimency!" She paled at once. "Granted, they didn't work, but still- I would have done nothing short of chucking the whole damn house into the sea and having everyone swim out to get Harry back."

"Chucking it into the sea might have been the safer option," she said darkly.

"I don't think so," Black said hesitantly, to both his, and McGonagall's surprise. Marcus hadn't thought Black would be singing his Lord's praises any time soon, but neither did he think he would be so openly advocating him, even in such small amounts. It was…intriguing.

Abruptly an influx of feelings surged forefront in his head, and he inhaled sharply, stumbling slightly as he forced his feet to continue their stride. Harry. It was Harry again. Their bond was pulling now, much stronger than before, hopefully due to their proximity and the growing access he had to his magic. Marcus could feel it slowly being drawn from him back to the other, although he hadn't felt the pull that would tell him Harry was trying to access his magic once more. Perhaps it was safe enough that he hadn't needed to. Marcus could only hope that was the case, even if he kept being hit with wave after wave of sorrow. He was curious as what would have aroused such strong feelings in the younger boy, and concerned.

The castle entrance loomed before them, and the doors opened for their Deputy Headmistress. The Great Hall looked a little ghastly completely empty, as it was.

"Check the map," he coolly ordered, and Black started as if he'd forgotten he was even clenching it in his fist. Stupid mutt.

Quickly the man unfolded his parchment and, with a guilty glance McGonagall's way, tapped it with his wand and said, "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good." The old professor's lips immediately tightened into a thin, hard line which Black didn't miss, going by the wince he gave.

"See, we're over here," he murmured, pointing at three sets of footprints clustered near the large drawn area of the Great Hall. The map was quite a marvellous thing, with footprints demarcating all the persons in Hogwarts and on its surrounding grounds. He could see the giant oaf's footprints near his hovel of a hut; Flitwick bustling around his office, and Sprout pottering about the greenhouses. But where-

"Harry is- oh." Black sounded surprised, but not in a bad way. "Harry's coming in right now." They all looked up to see the fruit of their labour emerge from behind a side staircase, and step fully into the Great Hall.

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><p>And thus concludes our game of Where's Harry, after what was it, two chapters, three cliffhangers, and about 9,000 words? Lol. I hope the result met all your expectations (o:<p>

And congratulations to TsaeDranFiegel, who was the 300th reviewer last week! They've requested a Justin/Harry piece. Terrific fun, that. Cheers, and do review!


	14. Chapter 14

**Anybody's Hero**

Rating: M

Summary: At the Wizengamot, Harry finds himself having a battle of wits with a very different opponent instead: Marcus Flint. Warnings for slash. Marcus/Harry.

For my 300th reviewer from **To Bedlam and Partway Back** , Lone-Angel-1992. I'm so sorry it took a whole bleeding year. But thanks ever so much for believing I'd come out with it in the end (o:

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, nor the lyrics of the Morrissey song the title comes from.

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><p><span>Chapter Fourteen<span>

Harry wasn't expecting to see Marcus, Sirius or Professor McGonagall when he made his way down to the Great Hall, let alone all of them together poring over a familiar-looking map. He squinted.

"Is that…another Marauder's Map?"

Marcus ignored him and began taking great long strides in his direction, stopping only when they were right in front of each other. Harry slipped the Firebolt off his shoulder, and stood it beside him. He was vaguely aware of a faint scuffle behind the older boy's shoulder, coming from where Sirius had stood with the professor, but he ignored it for the boy before him.

"You were upset," Marcus said brusquely.

He glanced down. "A bit," he conceded.

A hand found his face and tilted it upward. "The Obliviation didn't take, then," Marcus murmured. His eyes widened.

"How did you know?" he exclaimed. "I didn't think Snape would actually tell you-"

"He was in no condition to tell anyone anything," Marcus growled.

Harry thought he should feel either a little more vindicated or a little more abhorrent at the news, but he couldn't find himself feeling much more than warmth and safety emanating from the boy in front of him. He sighed, leaning into the palm still on his cheek.

"I'm glad you came," he admitted. "I didn't really have a clue of what to do once I got out of the cupboard, and that room. I didn't even have your parchment with me."

"Did you think I wouldn't?"

Harry thought the question over carefully. Marcus didn't appear upset like the last time he'd questioned him, but he couldn't really tell. "No," he said at last, "I think you tried to find me from the start. You- you helped a little bit, didn't you? I could only just refuse the Imperius Curse last year, but this time around, whatever Dumbledore and Snape threw at me, it just slid right off. I knew it had something to do with you." He gave a timorous smile.

Marcus's face darkened. "They deserve to rot in hell for what they did to you."

He glowered. "I won't argue with you on that," he declared, drawing a gasp from an eavesdropping McGonagall. "They knew, every bit of what the bloody Dursleys did to me. Said it was _in good practice." _He thought he was doing quite a fair imitation of Snape's ruddy sneer when Marcus hauled his face up and kissed him. Harry was pretty sure McGonagall did more than gasp then, but he was effectively distracted by Marcus, who moved his mouth over his and slid his tongue against his bottom lip. Harry made a greedy sound and opened his mouth; Marcus wasted no time and plunged his tongue inside, devouring him hungrily. He could feel their rings humming a song in unison, and moaned.

A throat clearing startled him.

"Glad to see you missed me, pup," Sirius said dryly, but he was grinning. He was abruptly overcome with a swell of emotion- it wasn't quite sadness, but it wasn't happiness, either. Marcus's arm around him tightened, but he lightly shook him off and passed the older boy his Firebolt instead, smiling gently to quell any jealousy.

"Siri," he murmured, and buried his face in the man's neck, wrapping his arms tightly over his shoulders. His godfather clung to him just as tightly, and Harry couldn't help but feel that welling of emotion, a sort of regret for things past that could've been, was the closest he could come to identifying it.

"Did- did my dad ever call you a son of a literal bitch?" he asked, part-curious, part-sadistic.

The man gave in to a choked sort of laughter. "That used to be his favourite nickname for me," he confessed, "until we came up with the Marauders. He still called me that whenever Lils weren't around, though." Sirius peered at him curiously. "Where did you hear that?"

He immediately glanced to his shoes. "Just read it somewhere," he mumbled, before looking toward the first thing he saw. It just so happened to be McGonagall. "Hello, Professor," he said baldly, "I didn't expect to see you here."

At once McGonagall looked stricken, although Sirius looked uncertain and Marcus vindicated.

"Black contacted me once you went missing," the older boy told him. "We blew up Grimmauld Place."

"I hope Buckbeak's all right," he commented. "What about Hermione? Did anyone find her?" Sirius frowned at his line of thought, not following. "I was studying with her when Snape and Dumbledore blitzed me. Did anyone check if she was all right?"

McGonagall's face turned ashen as dawning realisation broke upon Sirius's face. "She was still sleeping," he murmured. "She'd been sleeping ever since Molly found her, and she was still sleeping even as Voldemort's people were attacking the house. I saw Tonks carting her out before the others were Stunned."

"Someone's got to check," he said decisively. "She was completely surprised when the bloody fools came for me, so they must have done something to keep her quiet." McGonagall made an aborted sound at the back of her throat, and he turned to her. "I'm sorry if you don't like the way I'm talking about your…_colleagues, _I suppose, Professor, but you're not going to get anything politer about them from me."

McGonagall visibly shook herself. "I may not agree on the path you have taken to get here, nor on the path my…colleagues_, _as you say, have taken, but do not doubt that I am glad you are safe, Mr. Potter," she said.

'As your bloody experiment!', he was about to shoot at her, but Marcus gripped his arm to stem his ire before it could explode. The older boy shook his head minutely. Apparently McGonagall really meant what she said. How curious.

"Now what?" he asked. In reply, Marcus reached around his waist with an arm and hauled him back flush against his chest. He gave a little lopsided grin, not missing Sirius rolling his eyes at the motion.

Sirius bobbed his head in McGonagall's direction. "The agreement to bring us past the Hogwarts wards only extended to bringing you out through them. I guess we've got to head back to wherever it was you Apparated us from…"

"Middleton," Marcus supplied.

"Right…"

"What happened?" he asked Marcus quietly as he took his Firebolt back from the other boy. They began to make their way out of the Great Hall, with McGonagall stiffly leading the way, Sirius trailing them all bringing up the rear. "While I was otherwise occupied, I mean. At Grimmauld?"

Marcus folded his freed hands neatly behind his back and bowed his head as he told him, "Black and his Weasley found the two-way parchment I gave to you and wrote me-"

"Wait-" he started, "Sirius and _his _Weasley? You can't mean Charlie!" he exclaimed, forgetting to keep his voice down in his surprise. "But- wasn't he- his siblings, his parents-"

"He agreed with me when I said we had to find you," Sirius interrupted. "Although I may have sprung a bit of a surprise on him," he added a little shamefacedly. "I gave Flint here the secret to the Fidelius Dumbledore wrote, but I didn't know he'd come along with his own private entourage." Sirius directed this last accusingly at the older boy. Marcus just grinned viciously, utterly unrepentant.

"Private entourage?" Harry asked, frowning.

Marcus chuckled. "The Dark Lord might just have been behind me under a Glamour…along with his faithful."

Harry couldn't help but feel a little worried and sick about the situation. "And you- they- were set loose on Grimmauld? With the rest of the children-"

"They just Stunned the children," Sirius conceded grudgingly. "It was one of the conditions we stated. The children- they can't and don't know how to handle this type of situation. It's better that they be kept out of it entirely."

Marcus glowered at him darkly. "I doubt your ducklings are as naïve as you portray them to be. Well, we'll find out the truth about them soon enough." Harry didn't doubt that.

"To continue, Narcissa took on the Weasel mother and the Blood Traitor- Tonks, was it? Barty went after Moody, MacNair after your pathetic excuse of a werewolf," the older boy sneered, causing Harry to wonder what had caused the friction between him and Lupin. Even Sirius looked troubled. "I took on Snape when the bastard decided to show his oily face, and Lucius tried to take on Arthur Weasley." Marcus snorted. _"Tried. _If their duel had continued, I would have bet Weasley would have won. As it was, one of the Carrows had to help him out by Stunning Weasley in the back." He laughed at that, and hid a sigh of relief that Mr. Weasley had made it out all right.

"And our Lord duelled Dumbledore, of course, although it was hardly a fair fight." The older boy smiled grimly. "His magic's been bound. Our Lord will be conducting a ritual to drain it from him completely so he can't ever regain it. The bastard won't be weaving anymore spells any longer."

"Good riddance," he said hotly. "And I'm glad you took care of Snape- that _bastard- _he knew what was going on at the Dursleys. They _both _did. Bloody hell, they were glad for it." Harry grit his teeth and looked away. "Snape was pretty eager to try that when they found out they couldn't break into my mind, or use Veritaserum. Dumbledore said to save their energy." He laughed mirthlessly. "I don't know if I'm more insulted by what Snape said or Dumbledore said in this case. I'm just glad that after this I can wash my hands of both the sick bastards. Merlin_, _I swear I wanted so badly to kill them both then. If I'd had my magic I think I just might have."

Sirius was staring at him in horrified disbelief, while at his side Marcus merely sighed, a grim expression on his face. Harry guessed the older boy must have had some idea of it all through his empathy. As though he could sense his thoughts, Marcus reached out with an arm, dragged him closer, and pressed his lips against his temple. Even after that Marcus didn't drop the arm about his waist, almost as if were comforting him. As they continued walking, Harry leaned against the boy's solider side, but took pity on his godfather and pulled the conversation back to something a little safer.

"So no one was harmed during the attack on Grimmauld Place? I'm glad, then."

"I still intend to go through them one by one and find out just which one of them knew how much," Marcus growled.

"And I wouldn't say _no one _was harmed," Sirius threw in snidely. "Molly was bleeding-"

Marcus snorted. "Like any of it was serious," he scoffed. "A few blood replenishing potions and she'll be fine. And it's not like you can't say the old biddy didn't deserve it. She knew all about Snape and Dumbledore dragging you off, and even told her gangly brood to leave the Mudblood alone so that the Obliviation would sink-"

"Obliviation." He stopped walking altogether. Just beside him, Sirius started, his wide eyes revealing his ignorance. "On _Hermione?"_

Marcus sighed and scrubbed at his hair. "My father picked up on it almost immediately, from her, and Snape. The oily bastard was the one that had cast the spell- you mentioned earlier that she'd been sleeping?" he said to Sirius. "That was probably a spelled sleep to ensure the charm's effects fully took. Last I heard, your Weasley was watching over her. I could probably break it using my empathy, and even if I can't, my father should be able to fairly easily." The older boy tugged him closer with the arm about his shoulders, urging him along. It was only when he started walking that Sirius joined him as well.

"It won't have any lasting effects," Marcus added quietly. His empathy must have made it plainly obvious to him just what he was feeling for Hermione. "And after this they'll never be able to do it again."

Harry clenched his fists so tightly the wood on his broom bit into the flesh of his palm, even if he did begin walking again. "It wasn't so bad when it was just me," he muttered. "It's even worse to hear about someone else."

"That's exactly what we feel when we hear about you, pup," Sirius said, face unusually solemn. "Don't ever downplay what you went through, okay? It wasn't all right, none of it was." Behind him, Marcus's hand slipped to the small of his back underneath his shirt, warm against the skin he now knew to be scarred. Come to think of it, it was a little silly of him to never have noticed the marks on his back, but they didn't feel any different to him than the rest of his skin, and he honestly never looked in the mirror any more than he had to. He never thought of himself as much to look at, and at times wondered what Marcus saw that he didn't. He'd find out, all in good time, he supposed.

They'd reached the gates of the school. McGonagall stood just past them, waiting sternly for them to catch up.

"Oops!" Sirius exclaimed, mood swiftly changing. "I know that look. If she were a cat her furr'd be fluffing right now. Gots to hurry!"

The man scurried forward to join the Professor outside the wards, just preceding them.

"Back to Middleton," Marcus told them." His arm tightened around Harry's shoulders in warning, before he Apparated them back to Rue Morgue.

The entrance hall was empty this time, but Marcus led them back to the lounge where he'd first met the rest of the Dark children. The older boy made as if to open the door for them, but he grabbed Marcus's hand, and shook his head. "Later. Could I borrow you first…?"

Marcus's face was a mask of polite confusion, but he did open the door for Sirius and McGonagall to enter. Harry was standing on the wrong side of the door and therefore couldn't look in, but he did hear the Dark Lord call out a single name.

"Minerva."

He started, not knowing when Voldemort had began calling his Transfiguration Professor by her first name. He glanced at her, noticing her stiffened spine. There was a myriad of emotions flowing through her aged face, before she finally entered the room. Sirius was behind her, glancing worriedly at him. He grinned back at his godfather.

"We'll be back in a jiffy," he said, gripping Sirius's hand in encouragement.

The man still looked torn, but he relented and entered the room after McGonagall. Marcus let the door close after them, before turning back to him.

"What is it?" the older boy asked.

"Is there a bathroom nearby?" he asked.

He could feel Marcus's surprise. "Yes," the other answered slowly, "over here."

Marcus led them to the end of the deserted corridor to a public bathroom, with black marble flooring, silver taps, and large polished mirrors atop porcelain sinks. There were three empty cubicles against the back wall, and a couple of urinals on the far end. He frowned at the mirrors.

"They're not magical, are they?"

Marcus shook his head, a little bemused. "No, we find magical mirrors more of a hindrance than anything-"

"Good," he declared, pooling together what little magic he could reach through his ring and pointing at the door. _"Colloportus." _It shut and locked with a click. Marcus looked parts-disbelieving, and parts-amused.

"So you-"

He didn't bother listening to the older boy's smug words and merely backed him against the wall, and kissing him. He wasn't sure if he was doing this right, having very little experience in this sort of thing, but ever since he'd seen Marcus again, had felt the boy's physical presence at his side again, he'd wanted that little bit more. Even as they parted, breathless and breathing hard, he leaned right into him, arms tight about the older boy's thick middle, his nose against the warm skin at his throat. Marcus's own arms were clasped around his waist.

"I missed you when you were gone," Marcus murmured into his ear, making him shiver. "I missed you over the summer. I missed you when I didn't even have you."

He tried to smile. "How could you miss someone you didn't even know?"

Marcus touched his face, tilting his chin up. The smile on his face was gentle, tender even, and the largeness of the other's hands was making him drowsy. "Maybe I didn't know it was you. But I'm glad it is." Marcus pressed their foreheads together. "It's never…never felt so peaceful."

He looked up wondrously at the expression on Marcus's face. There did seem to be an ease around the older boy's eyes, a softer cast to his mouth. He touched Marcus's temple. "Has it been so hard, these years?" he asked, curious. "I don't- I haven't felt a thing."

Marcus smiled. "The bond should feel like that. It's soul-deep, so it should feel natural. I believe it's settling into place alongside your magic, so you won't feel any sort of disruption. It goes both ways and in time, all you'll need to do is reach out to find me. That's how it is with my parents. I wouldn't say it's been hard. I don't remember what it's like without it in place. But I can certainly feel the difference."

He smiled back, nuzzling against the hard line of Marcus's jaw. "I don't think I've said, 'thank you,' have I?" His hand slipped down Marcus's body to the front of his trousers, and then dropped to his knees. Marcus's eyes went genuinely startled and wide.

He'd never considered this before. It was just- he wanted to do something entirely for Marcus. He still remembered the first time between him and Marcus, his own cheeks reddening at the very thought. It didn't strike him as something Marcus would have done if it hadn't been for him. Yes, it might have been rather self-serving in the end, but Marcus had given him a little something then. He supposed he just…wanted to return the favour.

Marcus was already half-hard when he eased him out of his boxers, but hardened the rest of the way easily enough after a few pulls. It felt different in his mouth than it did in his hand, and he could feel the fine tremor in the older boy's thighs as he tried to maintain his control. He licked delicately at the slit, frowning slightly at the taste of the liquid pooling there, before slipping his lips over the head and sucking. Marcus's moan reverberated off the tiled walls around them, and hands braided themselves into his hair, cupping the back of his skull closer. He eyeballed the older boy above him as he hollowed his cheeks. Harry was a little surprised to see Marcus staring intently at him, his cheeks faintly pink. Then he had to break eye contact to blink, his eyes watering, and slid his mouth further down.

He only managed to get about halfway before the head hit the back of his throat, causing him to gag. He sputtered around Marcus's cock, excess saliva dripping down, and he winced, swiping at it with his thumb.

"Sorry," Harry attempted to mumble, his mouth still full, and Marcus groaned, his hips giving one sharp jerk that nearly had him choking again. He swallowed, tasting the bland saliva and salty precum as he tried again, bracing himself with one hand gripping the bottom half of Marcus's cock, and the other against the older boy's thigh. He fell into a manageable rhythm, taking just a little bit more of Marcus's length in each time, while his hand worked the rest that he couldn't quite manage yet, occasionally wandering a little lower to brush against Marcus's balls. He could feel the other boy shiver at each light stroke, and grinned to himself.

Harry plied the underside of Marcus's cock with the flat of his tongue, constricted his throat about the rigid length, and swallowed when there seemed like there was too much saliva. He remembered how he'd enjoyed that thin line of pain when Marcus had been a little rough, and pulled off till just the head was in his mouth, before giving the exposed skin a light nip. Marcus's hand in his hair immediately pulled tight, and he nearly lost his balance.

"Too much?" he asked, a little apologetically, patting the older boy's thigh.

Marcus's pistachio eyes were ablaze. "I'm going to come on your _face," _he growled, and Harry wanted to snort.

"You're not ruining my clothes," he retorted, before opening his mouth and taking Marcus in again, working him faster and harder now that he knew the other boy was close, and that the other boy _enjoyed _a little bit of rough sport. Marcus groaned, using the hands in his hair to hold him still while he began to move his hips, sliding his cock in and out of his mouth. Harry blinked. There was no other way to describe it- Marcus was _fucking _his face, he supposed. He supposed he was a little more bemused about the fact that he didn't quite mind it. Besides, Marcus was clearly enjoying himself, the flush on his face having darkened a little further, and the expression on his face was a replay of their time in the hotel room. Somehow, he always seemed to be looking up at Marcus when he came.

"Harry," Marcus grunted, his hips thrusting faster, sharper, "Harry, I-"

He tried to swallow as much of it when it came, cringing a little at the taste. It wasn't the worst thing he'd tasted (that dubious honour still belonged to a _raw-goldfish_-flavoured Bertie Bott's), but it wasn't exactly treacle tart, either. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and sat back on his haunches, panting slightly.

"Sorry it was a bit messy," he said, grinning a little. "I suppose I'll get better with practice."

Marcus caught him by the elbow and hauled him to his feet, almost effortlessly. His stomach flipped with the ease of motion. It was when Marcus manhandled him like he weighed absolutely nothing that made him get lightheaded.

"Better with practice?" the older boy leered. "I look forward to it."

He laughed, playfully shoving Marcus away with his clean hand when the older boy tried to pull him in for a kiss.

"You tossing wanker," he said. "That was really just for you, and- I'm not one to say no to kisses, just- could I brush my teeth first? It doesn't seem quite right to go round kissing someone with spunk in my mouth." He swallowed again, making a face at the leftover taste. "I'd hate to know what it'd be like when I burp." And then he winced at the thought.

Marcus stared at him incredulously, before beginning to laugh. The older boy conjured a toothbrush and some paste and handed them both to him. He smiled at the boy in thanks before beginning to scrub out his mouth.

"You didn't have to push yourself, you know," Marcus remarked, leaning against the sink beside his.

He spat out the last of the paste. "I didn't mind it," he said, washing his hands under the tap now. "It wasn't the sort of thing that got me going, but I was watching you." He glanced up to see Marcus watching him in the mirror, pistachio eyes dark. "And you were enjoying it."

Marcus banished the toothbrush and hauled him close. "Felt that, did you?"

_"Saw _it," he corrected. "Tasted it, too," he added, laughing to himself.

Marcus smiled, and kissed him. He closed his eyes and let himself relax in the older boy's embrace.

* * *

><p>The lounge had changed somewhat since he'd last seen it. The children were no longer there, of course, and the chaise couches had been cleared to make room for a large boardroom-type meeting table. Seated at the very head was Voldemort, with the Carrow twins ghosting about the room in their typical guard fashion. Oddly enough, McGonagall was seated directly beside Voldemort, on his immediate left. Her posture was still as rigid as he'd seen it last, and she seemed to be unable to tear her eyes away from the fake teenager. Sirius was fidgeting in the seat beside her like a scolded child. On the other side sat Lucius and a bored-looking Mrs. Malfoy, with Barty beside her, grinning like a mad hatter as he tossed Moody's magical eye up and down as if it were a tennis ball. MacNair was at the far end of the table from them, stinking of rust. Harry wrinkled his nose at the smell, and discretely sidled away. Going by the teasing smile on Marcus's lips, he wasn't quite discrete enough.<p>

There was a man on the Malfoy's side of the table that looked like a grown-up version of Marcus. This had to be the father everyone referred to, the one who had nearly killed his brother-in-law for a slight against his beloved wife. And now, it appeared, Harry was bonded to his beloved son. He gulped. The smile the man wore on his face was uncannily similar to the one currently on the older boy's lips, and did nothing to quieten his fears.

"What the hell're you doing?" Voldemort demanded in a gruff voice when he just stood there, taking the room in. "Hurry up and sit!"

They scrambled to obey, with him as a buffer between Sirius and Marcus on his other side. That put him right across from Marcus's father, who looked at him with amusement in his eyes.

"You have something-" the man said in a low, rumbling voice. It was the first time he'd heard Flint Sr. speak, even if the words were a little odd. When Harry just stared at him, utterly confused, the man thumbed at his cheek to demonstrate.

His eyes went large as his hands fled to his mouth. "You mean I-" He whipped his head about to glare at Marcus. "Why didn't you say anything?"

But Marcus had covered his face with his hands, and his shoulders were shaking. Bewildered, he turned to Sirius, but the man was red, decidedly not looking at him, and looking as if he were containing his laughter. Sirius coughed. "Better drink some warm water, pup," he advised.

He frowned at the man. "But I brushed my teeth-" Marcus groaned; McGonagall looked downright horrified. It was Barty snickering that gave the trick away.

"Oh, by Merlin's bloody balls," he muttered, embarrassment making his face burn.

"I'd say it was someone else's bloody balls," Voldemort remarked airily to the table at large, setting Marcus off on a coughing fit. Flint's father gave his Lord a pained look.

"My Lord, please- this is my son you're talking about."

"You're the one that brought it up," the Dark Lord replied flippantly.

"You're all childish prats," he grumbled, hiding his face in his collar. "Could we forget the toilet humour and move along?"

Voldemort was watching him as if he were an indulgent pet of some sort. "And what do you suggest, Potter?"

"Er, well, perhaps what's going to happen now?" he asked the table at large. "I mean, with Dumbledore gone-"

Voldemort looked directly at McGonagall as he said his next words. "I have drained the old man's magic. Permanently. There is no longer a leader of the Light."

Almost unbidden, a number of faces turned to Harry as the Dark Lord said that.

"Don't look at me," he told them crossly. "If you're expecting me to do the old coot any favours, you can bloody well think again. And I'm not doing you lot any favours either, definitely not after that," he added, glaring at Flint Sr. The man chuckled lightly, but McGonagall had flinched at his words, and while he might have felt apologetic for having upset her, he certainly wasn't going to apologise for what he'd said.

"Are we looking to Azkaban?" Barty asked.

Voldemort sighed, acting every bit his apparent age as he slumped to the side, cheek resting on his knuckles as he planted his elbow on the table. "Even if we do," he murmured, "I am in a bit of a dilemma as to what to do with them."

"My sister will not be content with the new direction we are taking, my Lord," Mrs. Malfoy confessed, looking almost sorrowful.

"I am most aware of that," Voldemort replied snippily.

"I'll do it," she said suddenly. "It's only right. I am her sister, after all. Ten years in Azkaban will put her in an even worse state than when she started. There will be nothing left of the sister I once knew. She might be in even worse state than Aunt Walburga ever was."

Harry frowned, having not understood her words, but to his side, Sirius's eyes were widening in realisation. "Narcissa- you're not- you can't be serious-!" He blinked, and then growled. "Whatever happened to _family?" _he sneered.

Mrs. Malfoy met his accusing gaze calmly. "It is exactly because she is family that I would do this," she returned. "Cousin, I'm sure you of all people would be most understanding, given your firsthand…_experience _under Aunt Walburga. If Uncle Orion had lived you know he would have done much the same."

Sirius couldn't face her anymore and looked away.

She was talking about killing her own sister, he realised with a sick feeling in his stomach. Even if he knew Bellatrix's reputation, and that she might be even worse than Walburga Black now…it still left him feeling uneasy. Harry hadn't noticed when Marcus's hand had begun to rest on his thigh, but when the older boy squeezed once, hard, he smiled at him gratefully.

"And the Lestranges?" Harry turned at the sound of Marcus's father's voice. He sounded uncannily like his son, if a little gravellier with age. "Although Dol may have married Bella, theirs was an arranged affair. And I don't doubt he and Bas would hesitate to use their family traits in Azkaban if it meant staying sane."

"Dol?" he repeated under his breath. "Bas?"

"Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange," Marcus quietly explained. "Rodolphus is married to Bellatrix. All three of them were caught that night and sentenced to Azkaban."

"But what kind of family traits would they have that would help?" he asked. He glanced at his dogfather. "Are they animagi?"

From the head of the table, Voldemort smirked. "Close, but no cigar. None of the Lestranges are animagi." He then directed his smirk at McGonagall. "Minerva, would youcare to guess what the Lestrange family trait is? Given how it lies so close to your own heart, after all."

The woman pursed her lips. "The two of them were…exceptionally talented in Transfiguration," she admitted, even if looked like it pained her to do so. "However, their best Transfiguration was saved for outside of class. They put a time-delay transfiguration on all of the benches at the Gryffindor table to turn into lions during the Hallowe'en Feast!"

Harry burst out laughing before he could stop himself. To his surprise, Barty joined in.

"Merlin, I was just in Second-Year," the man said, "but that was brilliant. I nearly died of laughter then. We toasted them in the Ravenclaw Common Room that night."

Sirius was staring at them as if they'd all grown a second head. "Merlin," he rasped, "that was- that was _Rodolphus _and _Rabastan? _The Marauders spent _months _trying to figure out who did it!"

"You are correct," the Dark Lord said. "The Lestranges have a family trait of Transfiguration."

"But how could that help them in Azkaban?" Harry asked. "The only way I heard would help them keep their sanity would be to remain in their animagus form, and to be confident in their innocence."

"They could Transfigure each other into various forms, all without the use of a wand. Besides, Longbottom can attest to their innocence," Mrs. Malfoy said.

Sirius snapped. "Attest to their lack _thereof, _you mean! Alice and Frank are in the mental ward at St. Mungo's because of them!"

"Don't forget my part in it," Barty added slyly. Sirius rounded on the other man with a growl.

"As if that's something to be proud of!"

"It is," Mrs. Malfoy snapped, looking strangely irate. Harry was still a little astounded by all this new information. He had no idea of what had happened to Neville's parents, let alone that they were…permanently damaged?

"You don't know," she continued harshly, "but both of them knew where Longbottom's alignment fell. I don't know why they even bothered to check, but that it read as Dark, even at that age-" She cut herself off with a loud snap of her perfect teeth. When she looked up again, her eyes were blazing. "They would have killed the boy if Bella hadn't arrived!"

"Even if our original intention _was _to kill the boy because of that prophecy," Barty hummed. Marcus's father looked at him with amusement in his eyes. "I don't think you are helping, Barty," he said gently. The younger man merely grinned at him from across the table, utterly unrepentant.

Sirius looked stunned. Harry wasn't much better off. He hadn't known any of this.

"Does Neville know this?" he asked.

Mrs. Malfoy glanced his way. "Not before Second-Year, no. He was terrified when he first discovered his alignment, of course, given how that old crone had been treating him. No, she doesn't know either," she replied to his unasked question. "I can only imagine how much further she would have taken it if she had. The Longbottoms never managed to tell her about the boy's alignment, but they had already begun treating him with distaste before they were attacked. In the hag's eyes her perfect son could do no wrong," Mrs. Malfoy sneered. "It was _his _behaviour she emulated after they were indisposed. I think she hated that the disappointment of a grandson survived while her prized son did not."

Marcus's lip curled at her words. He glanced at the older boy in concern, but Marcus shook his head minutely.

"So when he cast that spell in Second-Year…" Harry said slowly.

Mrs. Malfoy shrugged, her poise making even this most banal of movements appear elegant. "He was terrified, as I said, of what this meant for himself and his family. After all, the old hag had only told him horror stories. He was terrified of turning into his parents' attackers."

"As he should've been," Sirius snapped, although he sounded less certain than before. Harry suddenly realised that Sirius hadn't even known about Neville's alignment, although he must have guessed at his yearmate's leanings during their visit to Diagon Alley. "Alice and Frank- I knew them. They would _never_ have thought that of their son."

"Family means everything to us," Mrs. Malfoy retorted, "not to them. Andromeda was never disinherited; she chose to cut herself off from the family of her own accord. And just how many times has the Light culled a Dark child just because they were born? And we certainly can't forget you, _Cousin, _so carefully Neutral because it is the most you can manage, yet so utterly afraid of fathering a child because of your heritage," she sneered. Harry looked at Sirius, shocked. His godfather was very carefully not looking at any of them.

"It's not like the Dark has never-," was as far as Sirius got before Barty cut in.

"We have not," the younger man said. "We have never forgotten who our children are, even as they have raised their wands against us." There was a strangely formal intonation to his words like the way he had once seen Queen Elizabeth II on the telly speaking her royal plural. If he wasn't wrong, he'd just discovered the Crouch family trait. No wonder Bartemius Crouch, Sr. had basically been a walking rules book last year, and Barty himself a pride and joy of Ravenclaw house while he'd still been in school. "And we have always welcomed back any who return to the fold." This last part in particular seemed pointedly directed at Sirius, and his godfather flushed and turned away, unable to meet Crouch's heavy gaze, the most sane he'd ever seen it.

"Perhaps we might move along?" Flint Sr. suggested gently.

McGonagall hesitated, before speaking up. "What other family traits do you possess?" she asked, sounding so much like Hermione he had to bow his head to hide a sad smile.

"Does Clan McGonagall have none?" Lucius asked, smiling thinly.

McGonagall eyed him the same way she would a particularly wilful child. "I would have thought it quite obvious," she returned, and Transfigured his cane into an actual eagle, leaving the blond clutching his wand protectively. More than a few around the table hid smiles at that, and Barty laughed outright. "And I have always wondered about the Weasleys," she admitted. She glared Lucius into silence. "Arthur's father, Bedivere, had a knack for tinkering about with things as well, fixing them. The rest of the Weasleys, it appears, seem good at fixing things."

"Bill is a curse-breaker, though," he said slowly. "In Egypt, for Gringotts."

"Don't let the name mislead you, Potter," the Dark Lord said. "When you break a curse, aren't you fixing something as well? In this case, entrances and access points to tombs?"

"I suppose so," he hummed thoughtfully.

"Charlie's always had a knack for 'fixing up' animals," Sirius added tentatively. When no one spoke out against him, he continued. "That was why he was on the retrieval squad in Romania; he had a real touch for calming the wounded ones, and getting them back right as rain."

Harry grinned. "So you'll _were _doing more than snog that night." Merlin, had it only been last night? It seemed like months ago now.

His godfather scowled, and the rest of the table laughed at his expense. The mood lightened immensely, and he was thankful for that. Marcus raised an eyebrow at him, and he stuck out his tongue. Marcus leaned close enough to murmur, "Very mature, Harry."

Harry just rolled his eyes and stuck out his tongue again.

"Fred and George- well, I don't know if they've ever actually _fixed _anything," he continued, "but they sure know how to 'tinker', to borrow your word, Professor. As for Ron-" He shrugged. "He can eat a lot? And cast a pretty mean slug-belching curse?"

Even MacNair wrinkled his nose at that. "Who'd want to cast a _slug-belching _curse?"

"The same type of person who'd cast a bat-bogey hex?" Voldemort asked archly, looking straight at him. Harry gave him a lopsided smile. "Perhaps the youngest two are cut from a different cloth."

"Or perhaps not," Lucius drawled. "I remember a certain animalistic _spell _my son was subjected to last year, Barty." Harry began to grin, knowing exactly where this was going. "You and the Weasleys are related, I remember. Perhaps _some _blood runs true."

Barty grinned, entirely unrepentant. "You should know that you're related to the Weasleys too, _pot_. Look at who else is in the mud pit with you before you start slinging at others."

The blond's lip curled with distaste at the metaphor.

"I will not hold the Light to the actions of their leader," Voldemort quietly inserted, and a hush fell on their discussion. "However, with the old coot's removal, I would expect the leadership of the Light to take a _different _direction." He nodded at McGonagall.

The Professor firmed her chin. "I won't support your massacre of innocents, Tom."

"Well, good," the teenaged Dark Lord replied bluntly, "because there isn't going to be one. Honestly, Minerva, have you seen me yet harm someone who honestly doesn't deserve it?" Merlin, he almost sounded like he was whining!

"Well, no…" McGonagall reluctantly conceded, "but you cannot hope to win their support overnight. The differences between Light and Dark run so very deep…"

There was a strange sort of desperation and urgency tinging her argument that made it seem as if she was speaking about something more than the conflict between Light and Dark, but he didn't know what it was. Looking at Sirius, the man looked just as lost as he was, and not a little torn. Harry bit his lip, and then leaned over. "Your cousin might like to know her daughter's all right," he suggested softly. "Tonks?"

Sirius's eyes widened, before softening with rueful guilt as he nodded. Harry glanced at Marcus, only to find the older boy calmly watching him. Marcus bent close and pressed his lips to his temple. This close, he could feel Marcus's lips quirking into a smile against his skin as he murmured, "Maybe we should leave them to it?", gesturing with his chin back at the discussion on the table. It seemed much more serious than before, with the other members of the table leaning forward in their seats to lend their own suggestions towards the integration of the two sides. They were discussing the future of the rest of the wizarding world now, and he knew he'd be all right with his lot. His part in the story was finished now, and he'd be content to never bother with any of this ever again.

He nodded his agreement, and Marcus stood soundlessly. He gripped Harry's hand in his own and pulled him to his feet alongside. Sirius clattered to stand when they did.

"If you'll excuse us. My Lord," Marcus murmured, bowing. Harry bobbed a clumsy bow, while Sirius remained stiffly erect. Marcus led them all out of the room, although Sirius made to go in a separate direction.

"I'm off to check on Remus and Charlie first, before heading over to Andy's," the man mumbled. "I'll let you know about Hermione when I see Charlie. There's a lot I need to get straight in my head first before heading over there." He turned and walked away, muttering to himself under his breath. Harry watched him go with a frown, concerned for his godfather's well-being. For him, it wasn't so difficult to understand and accept since he'd only fallen into the Light because he'd never known anything better. For Sirius, he guessed, the Light had once been his salvation. This afternoon's revelations had probably knocked his world view completely out of orbit. And Harry knew there were ghosts Sirius was still answering to, his parents in particular. None of this could be easy for him.

"What happened to Lupin?" he asked. "Everybody gets this look on their face whenever he's mentioned-"

Marcus's growl cut off whatever he might have said. "He was the one that contacted Dumbledore," he snarled. "Apparently he could _smell _me all over you."

"Oh," Harry said lamely, "that. Honestly, I forgot."

The older boy looked at him incredulously. "You forgot?"

"I did," he admitted. "Yes, he might've landed me in a shithole of trouble, but look what came out of it. I'm fine, you're fine, those two bastards are rightfully rotting in hell-"

"That's a rather simplistic view of things," Marcus drawled.

"Well, maybe," he conceded. "But it's still all's well that end's well, isn't it? So? Where is Lupin?"

"Hanging by his thumbs in the dungeons," Marcus told him grudgingly.

He glared at the older boy. "What the- get him down, Marcus. For Sirius, if- oh, fine. For me, then," he said, rolling his eyes at Marcus's look of disgust at the mention of his godfather. Marcus grumbled a little more, but in the end his eyes went a little glassy, a dead giveaway that he was talking to Flint Sr.

"My father will make the appropriate arrangements."

Harry squinted. "Marcus- are you- are you _pouting?"_

"Am not," the older boy snapped, resolutely not looking at him. Harry laughed and leaned up to kiss him.

Marcus slid his hands up his back, to his front, but snagged at his hips. He frowned down at the obstruction sticking out of his pockets, and pulled the crown out.

"What's this?" he asked.

Harry shrugged, pulling a face as he slipped a hand into his pocket to pull out the necklace too. "I found this one in the cupboard Snape and Dumbledore shoved me in, and that at Hogwarts. They just stuck on to my ring and wouldn't let me go." Harry glared up at Marcus. "The ring doesn't have some unaddressed abandonment issue that I need to know about, does it? Because I swear, if I hadn't caught those damn things they would have broken my fingers, and I'm really not wearing any more jewellery than this. Oh, hey, look at that. They like your ring, too."

True enough, the crown and necklace were clinging to the other boy's ring, although with decidedly less fervour than they had his. Marcus was staring down at both crown and necklace with a shaken, almost horrified look on his face. A glance at the hands holding both items told him were not faring in much better condition. He frowned. "Marcus?"

"That- that's impossible," the older boy blurted out. Marcus looked from the crown and necklace in his hands to the ring on his finger. "These are- but how did they end up with you? It doesn't make any sense at all."

"What doesn't make any sense?" he demanded irritably.

Marcus looked him full in the face, and there was something like fear in his expression. Fear for _him. _"I thought this was over," he whispered, "but what does _this _mean?"

It might have been a side effect of their bond, but Harry thought he could feel tendrils of unease licking at him from Marcus's mind, instead of the other way round.

The door to the lounge burst open, led by Flint Sr. Voldemort was right behind him.

"You say they were attracted to his ring?" the man asked hoarsely.

Voldemort was looking the most vulnerable he had ever seen him, even more so than that time back in the Chamber of Secrets and he had threatened to destroy the diary with that basilisk's fang.

"What is the meaning of this?"

All three of them looked at him, and Harry felt profoundly cold from the scrutiny. There was something going on here that he did not understand. If he could, he would have taken the ring from his finger and flung it as far as he could. Something told him that even Marcus's regard, especially as budding as it was, would not help him here.

"What's going on?"

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><p>I think I mentioned to a few reviewers how much I've enjoyed the Malfoy men's role in this piece as my whipping boys, but I think I put Harry through the wringer twice as much. We're not quite done with the poor dear yet, I'm afraid. We're approaching home stretch now- just two chapters left, I think. Thank you for all the support thus far, and do review! Cheers.<p> 


	15. Chapter 15

**Anybody's Hero**

Rating: M

Summary: At the Wizengamot, Harry finds himself having a battle of wits with a very different opponent instead: Marcus Flint. Warnings for slash. Marcus/Harry.

For my 300th reviewer from **To Bedlam and Partway Back** , Lone-Angel-1992. I'm so sorry it took a whole bleeding year. But thanks ever so much for believing I'd come out with it in the end (o:

**NOTE: WARNINGS FOR UNDERAGE SLASH**

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, nor the lyrics of the Morrissey song the title comes from

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><p><span>Chapter Fifteen<span>

He glanced about him uncertainly, eyes going immediately to Marcus. Things had been tense since the previous afternoon, and in truth he was still feeling a little lost. Sirius and Charlie hadn't left his side once, but he had felt strangely bereft without Marcus's presence beside him. The older boy had returned only this morning, looking red-eyed and withdrawn. Harry almost felt afraid, something he'd never felt in Marcus's presence before, and knew the other had picked up on it when Marcus's head had whipped about sharply to stare at him. He'd refused to return the look, not knowing what kind of face he could show the older boy now that first seedlings of doubt had been planted.

And now he was standing in the middle of a ring of salt, with Marcus at the ten o' clock position, Sirius at the two, Barty at the eleven, Charlie at the one, and Voldemort at the six rounding the circle off. He stood right in the middle where the clock hands would have been, trying his best not to fidget. Harry had been originally curious to have this ritual done, even enthusiastic, and he knew the others were just as anxious, but now he couldn't help but feel a little worried. His feelings on a lot of things had changed over the past few months, although Marcus had been quick to assure him that a Light alignment did not always make a Lightsider, just as a Dark alignment did not immediately make a Death Eater. However, when Snape was the only example anyone could cite for truly going against their alignment, Harry began to sweat all over again. Marcus nodded his reassurances at him. He could accept that much, at least. He nodded back, drew a deep breath, and then forced himself to relax, slowing his breathing as much as he could, even if his heartbeat still continued to thunder in his eardrums.

_"Show us, by the dark and the day,_

_ Mother Earth and Father Sky,_

_ If the one before us stands at morning, noon, or night;_

_ Reveal thy heart to thine light."_

The rhyme was simple enough as these things went, apparently, but it was the others' placement, the ring of salt, and the ground of the ritual room that went a long ways into making things difficult. They'd had to use pure sea salt dried under a full moon, not to mention the cleansing procedure the room had to undergo before it could be used for any ritual, let alone this. Marcus had gone over the details with him earlier, but all he remembered was his gratitude that no decapitated limbs, blood, or powdered ancestor bones had been used in it.

A bolt of lightning crackled right in front of him, and he would have stumbled back had it not been for his feet feeling as if they'd been nailed to the ground. The smell of ozone was sickly in the air, and he gagged, trying to inhale through his mouth instead. The lightning cracked, again. And again. The last bolt was the largest yet, and flared a striking grey, leaving him dazed and seeing spots everywhere he looked.

Finally, it felt like his feet were released from their anchor and he tipped backwards from his central position, landing hard on his bum. He winced; it was still sore, damnit!

"What did that lightning mean?" he asked the room at large.

"Three strikes for power," Barty intoned formally, "and the grey of a dove's wing for Neutrality."

"So I'm Neutral?" he asked, slowly clambering up on his feet. Sirius huffed impatiently and hoisted him up without any further ado.

"Powerfully so," Voldemort said, watching him with a strange expression in his dark blue eyes. Harry could hardly forget their odd encounter in the entrance hall yesterday, even if Marcus's father was no longer present. There was Barty still here, he remembered, and even if Barty didn't have the advantage of the mind magics Marcellus Flint had, the other man was nothing if fanatically loyal to Voldemort. He felt the phantom grip of the man's hand around his arm, calloused and grizzled where he had once worn the guise of Mad-Eye Moody, and shivered. Both Sirius and Marcus shot him a look, and something about the look in Marcus's eyes caused him to tense.

"Is it all right if I ask what the rest of you are?" he abruptly said, trying to loosen some of the tension that had begun to build. "I mean, I already know about Siri and Marcus, but if it's not usually said-"

"Neutral-Light," Charlie admitted easily enough. "And it's not taboo to ask or anything, it's just that people prefer to assume rather than ask and find out they've been going together with the big bad wolf," he continued, rolling his eyes. "I'm sure you've heard by now, but the UK is probably the only European country that's this prissy about it. In Romania, nobody gives a rat's arse."

Harry looked at him curiously, distracted. "Did your whole family go through this ritual, then?"

Charlie grinned. "Every single one of us, the year we got our Hogwarts letters. Bill's like me, a Neutral-Light, but the twins are very strictly Neutral. Perce the ponce is Light, of course, and so is Ron, but Ginny's a sort of Darkish-Neutral. Mum'd been giving the twins grief up till then about their alignment, but the moment she found out about Ginny's, she shut herself up tight."

"Wow," he muttered.

Voldemort shrugged, uncaring. "There was a reason why my diary aligned with her so easily."

Charlie looked a little uneasy by Voldemort's offhand reference as to how his little sister had nearly died, but didn't say anything. If anyone else had noticed how Voldemort's eyes had seemed to linger on him after he said that, they said nothing.

"I'm purely Dark," Barty admitted, shrugging. Harry turned to look at him. "Your dad must have hated that," he commented.

The man sneered. "So was my mother, and he loved her."

He didn't know what else to say to that. He didn't even notice Marcus sidling up behind him to grab him by the waist, pulling him flush against his solid body. Harry squeaked at the sudden jerk, before reminding himself to relax, but he couldn't help laughing at the scowl on Sirius's face. His godfather might put up with Marcus, but that didn't mean he liked to see it. Harry didn't quite mind. It's not as if he was fond of walking in on Sirius and Charlie sucking face, either.

"So that makes me the biggest," Marcus rumbled, looking at Barty with glinting eyes, "but which one of us is the Darkest?"

"Why would you even have to ask?" Sirius asked. "Isn't it him?" He pointed rudely at Voldemort.

Barty frowned. "For someone raised in our traditions, you have no manners at all. If my Lord hadn't waved me off earlier I would have challenged you already."

Sirius stiffed, chin raising and nose flaring.

"Siri," he muttered, grabbing for his godfather's sleeve. "Siri, please." He glanced at Voldemort. "And thank you for- you know. Making it easier." The Dark Lord said nothing but merely watched him with glittering eyes, a small not-smile on his face.

"What- what did you mean by that, then?" he asked, trying to ignore dark blue eyes that tracked his every movement. "When you mentioned about which one of you being the biggest and what not? I mean, you are the Dark Lord. So- so shouldn't you be the Darkest of them all?"

"I am not an evil stepmother," Voldemort said irritably, clearly recognising the reference.

He blanched. "Sorry," he muttered. "But it was an honest question." He frowned. "You're the Dark Lord. So wouldn't that automatically make you the Darkest? You know, living up to expectations and all that rot."

This time, when Voldemort smiled, it wasn't his usual sly smirk. There was something almost wistful about his youthful face. "Haven't you understood by now, Potter? The Dark is so much more than an alignment." With a cutting slash of his hand a large crackle of lightning crackled right before them, just as strong and just as light as his. Startled, Harry look directly into Voldemort's face and remembered words from a lifetime ago:

_'…terrible things, yes, but great.' _

"Oliviander said something like that before," he murmured, "when I first got my wand from him." He removed it from his pocket, even though it felt strange once again holding it in his hand after so long. He hadn't any cause to use his wand recently, as his ring worked for most of the smaller magics he'd required so far, not to mention his magic hadn't fully recovered yet either.

Voldemort circled closer; he felt more than saw Sirius flinch out of the corner of his eye. Still, he kept his hand extended, and if either of them noticed his hand shaking when the Dark Lord plucked the wand from his grasp, they said nothing. Marcus hadn't once let go of him.

"This wand," Voldemort said, "is the one that caused the Priori Incantatem effect with my own." The illusion of a boy pulled his own wand from his pocket and held the two out side by side. They really did mirror one another, in shape and in style, even if the wood of Voldemort's wand was significantly lighter, almost an ash-grey colour. His eyes cut sharply to the side. "It is made of-"

"-holly," he confessed after a short pause. "Holly and the tail feather of a phoenix. Oliviander told me, too, that our tail feathers came from the same phoenix."

"I love how you can say, 'your tail feathers' with a straight face and mean every word of it," Sirius muttered.

He rolled his eyes. "Siri, shut up please," he said loudly, even as he couldn't help but smile. Charlie clouted the man on the back of the head for good measure. His godfather grinned back, entirely uncaring.

Voldemort's gaze grew considering, effectively sobering the mood. "Know this, then, that it was Dumbledore's own phoenix that lent its feathers to the task."

"Fawkes?" he blurted out. "But why would he-"

"Humans forget too often that phoenixes are creatures of magic as well," Barty said loftily.

Sirius raised an eyebrow. "We really do have to get used to that," he groused. Charlie elbowed him warningly. Voldemort smirked, before sending a stream of golden sparks at the ceiling. He felt a tug on his ring at the use of magic, and couldn't help smiling at the sight. He liked the thought that his ring and his wand were so interlinked with each other.

"Not that I'm not grateful and whatnot, with you helping us out on this," Harry began hesitantly after a long moment, where Voldemort continued twirling his wand around as if he owned it, "shouldn't you have better things to be doing with your time? You know, proper Dark Lord sort of things? Apart from that one time in the lounge discussing what had happened, I've only ever seen you around the children."

Voldemort snorted elegantly. "I was quite apt at being a Dark Lord while you were twiddling your thumbs in a closet," he said dryly, and Harry scowled. "Do you honestly think anyone will take me seriously in this body?" Voldemort retorted, gesturing at his slim, teenager body. "Yes, the English are largely idiots, but even they are not blind. And until Dark magic is recognised in this country, or even Neutral, I will never gain a legitimate seat of power. But that's all right," he added, shrugging easily. "I've largely gotten over most of my self-importance. I'm not exactly fond of paperwork, either. Besides, why would I want to bother myself with all the legwork? Isn't that what minions are for?"

"Do you mean Mr. Malfoy, and MacNair, and all your other people at the Ministry?" he asked. "But shouldn't you be worried about them toeing the line, at least? I mean, they're your most visible followers to the rest of the wizarding world. Everyone knows that they're supposed to be speaking for you, even if they don't say it out loud. What if they say something you don't agree with?"

"Aren't you worried they'll climb all over you?" Sirius asked bluntly, scepticism apparent on his face.

"Neither of you _think," _Voldemort pronounced. "I don't care how the changes are set in place, as long as they _are _set in place. And if either of you'll for a moment think I cannot manage my own minions-" This smile was thin and all sorts of threatening. "My minions can have whatever minions of their own that they want. As long as they know that they answer to _me." _

"I see this is what you meant about only _largely _having gotten over your self-importance," Sirius muttered, unlearned and unrepentant.

"You were never worried at all," Charlie realised with a touch of concealed awe. "If you brought down Dumbledore so easily- that was a display, too. None of your followers could ever hope to challenge him. When you defeated him like that- that was your own statement of power."

Voldemort laughed derisively, goading his godfather on as if he were throwing oil onto the flame. "Even the Weasley has more common sense than you." Charlie blanched at being called out like that, his unease at being so near the Dark Lord hardly vanished. "But then again, I'm not the only one with this power now, am I?" Voldemort asked, and his eyes began to glitter anew.

"By all portents and signs Harry was born with the power, my Lord," Marcus cut in, his arm going tight about his waist. He stiffened, feeling the line of tension pulling Marcus's body taut behind him. "It's not a side effect. Of- of anything."

"What portents and signs would you mean, Marcus?" Voldemort mused, twirling both wands between his fingers before pocketing them both. "Would you perhaps mean the prophecy that has already been _dispelled?" _Glancing up, he saw Marcus's complexion turn ashen. "And your dear Mr. Potter has already been good enough to inform me of your stance on prophecies. Utter codswallop, I hear?"

Marcus swallowed heavily, and Harry could feel his throat working against the back of his head. "My Lord, please-" he tried again.

"What are you complaining about? You still get to keep him anyway," Barty said irritably, scowling. Harry chanced a glance at Voldemort; his youthful face was unyielding and unbending. Behind him, Marcus's eyes went wide, but the Dark Lord didn't relent for a moment, piercing him through with cutting cerulean orbs.

"I can't," Marcus struggled to say, "I _can't-"_

"What the hell is going on?" Sirius had drawn his wand and gone back-to-back with a wary Charlie Weasley. His godfather was looking straight past him though, to Marcus. "Get the fuck away from him, Flint," he snarled. "I _knew _you lot were right bastards-"

Marcus flinched at the accusation, his grip sliding loose for a bare second. He tried to dart away, but the older boy recovered too quick, too fast, and had him about the waist again, with his other large hand covering his eyes, even as he lashed out with his elbows and feet and whatever he could manage with.

"Harry, Harry, relax, all right?" He could feel Marcus's shoulders shaking where they wrapped around him, and he didn't understand. He didn't stop to think, though, just kept struggling as much as he could. He could feel that Marcus was still hesitant to bring the full extent of his empathy down on him, so he tried to use as much of it against him as he could, shoving back at the older boy's mind with as much violence as he could manage. Marcus snapped back, reeling, and he desperately seized the chance to dart away.

Voldemort was there instead, though. Harry's forgotten that the Dark Lord was holding both wands, but he didn't draw either of them. He didn't have to. Just like he felt its response to his wand earlier, Harry could feel the ring on his hand grow painfully cold, till it felt like his finger had been severed entirely. He suddenly knew- just as the rings could be used to channel magic, so could they be used to draw magic, and that was what Voldemort was doing: dragging all of his magic out of him and storing it inside his ring, where he couldn't use any of it. It made no sense, given how that it was _his _ring, but Harry was a little hard-pressed to make sense of anything right now. Having his magic cut off was like having his bindings broken again, only without the punch-drunk feeling and all the strangled, bereft pain numbing his body and mind. He could hear Sirius and Charlie in the background, feel their anger and confusion and worry, but it was if through a funnel, and try as he might he couldn't respond.

Harry gave a choked gasp and tumbled to his knees, curling around his blazing cold hands. The digits had turned completely numb and he couldn't even feel them, let alone move them. Tears streamed down his face, scalding hot where they burnt his frigid skin. He'd known pain before, but this- this _hurt_ in a soul-deep place that he hadn't even known existed before.

"Flint told you that your bond would touch your souls, didn't he?" Voldemort's eyes were hard and unrelenting as they bore into him. "I'll say this much, at least- he didn't know your soul wasn't the only one in your body. Your bonding upset the rather tenuous balance in your head, and that left _me_ free to come out and play." Voldemort's eyes were gleaming now, dark and dangerous. Harry didn't understand a word he meant. The Dark Lord took a few luxurious steps in his direction, stopping short of just where he lay. "I'm rather impressed by this metal tree business, though. I hadn't thought their attractive properties could be this strong. Handy little thing, especially for finding trinkets I'd thought I'd lost years ago. I might have to look into procuring one of my own."

"My Lord, please!" Abruptly Marcus was back, welcome if only for the strength and warmth cocooning him. It was almost comforting. Harry didn't know how Voldemort could do that using his ring. If Marcus had done something to the ring- but there was last year's ritual, and how Voldemort had his blood- what had Marcus said? Blood was one of the most magically potent substances in the world, he managed to remember. Was this what they had planned, all this time?

"No, Harry, please, I swear I didn't-" Marcus's voice sounded desperate, but he didn't know what to believe anymore. "My Lord, _please!" _The older boy's hand was on the back of his neck, massaging. He could feel the implicit command in them, as one by one the muscles in his body fell limp and lax and he hung like a wax doll in Marcus's grip.

"You said you had him the last time, too," came Voldemort's passionless reply. Barty was howling laughter in the background, but he could still hear Sirius cursing, and Charlie's frantic urging. As long as they were all right-

There were lips against the back of his neck, and a faint, burning wetness trickling down his skin.

"I'm so sorry," he heard, and he tried to cringe away from it, but couldn't quite manage the motion. His scar was throbbing in time with his ring, the first reaction it'd had from Voldemort all this while. It was the last thing he recognised before darkness swallowed him whole.

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><p>Does this count as another bloody cliffhanger? Good Lord, this piece has been rife with the awful buggers, hasn't it? I'm probably going to get tonnes of hate-mail for this, either way (o: I think I shan't be as cruel to you lot and have you'll wait another week yet again, especially since this was almost late; I'll have the next and final chapter up tomorrow. Thank you all so much for the support and encouragement I've had throughout this piece. Also, do review!<p> 


	16. Chapter 16

**I'll Never Be Anybody's Hero Now**

Rating: M

Summary: At the Wizengamot, Harry finds himself having a battle of wits with a very different opponent instead: Marcus Flint. Warnings for slash. Marcus/Harry.

For my 300th reviewer from **To Bedlam and Partway Back** , Lone-Angel-1992. I'm so sorry it took a whole bleeding year. But thanks ever so much for believing I'd come out with it in the end (o:

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, nor the lyrics of the _two _Morrissey songs used in this piece, one in the title, and the other in the chapter proper

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><p><span>Chapter Sixteen<span>

When he first awoke he wasn't sure if the darkness was for the lack of light in the room, or the lack of light in his eyes. Slowly, he processed the faint awareness he had of the rest of the room, from the large vanity in the corner, to the drapes drawn over the enormous bay windows, to the luxurious bed he was resting on. He didn't understand how this was possible, when, he reached up to touch his face, and found his eyes sealed firmly tight. It was strange, though. It _felt _like they were open. He could even blink, insofar as much as one could blink with closed lids. Physically he knew they were closed, but his mind seemed to be processing his sight just ruddy fine. Try as he might he couldn't unclench them.

He didn't remember how he'd gotten here. He didn't remember what had happened to him that could have him lying here, naked, on top of the silk covers, with aching muscles. Neither could he fathom just why he would be so comfortable at his being absolutely bare. Previously when he was- when he was- previously, he had never enjoyed making a show of himself. His back tingled with phantom pains that absent hands longed to soothe. He couldn't remember what it was that had changed to make this so, when it happened, or even why.

He lay as still as he could manage, trying not even to breathe as he considered what exactly he did and did not know. There was a great amount of the latter, he realised, and not a lot of the former, although he couldn't quite summon up enough of himself to care. Any sort of strong emotion had become a vague concept to him, and was fading faster as he tried to hold onto their ragged vestiges. And then he thought- why bother? Who was he, who had he been, and where had this person gone? And what, above all things, had made him like this? He had no answers to any of these questions, could not care to find them, and the more these thoughts circulated in his mind, the faster he felt them slipping from his grasp, as though they'd been circling down a drain. Within bare moments he only had a lingering awareness of a previous discomfort. There were still things that were important to him, only these no longer numbered among them.. It was his self that no longer registered on that scale, and he had other, more important priorities. He was sure of it. He exhaled in a long, pained breath.

Speaking of things that were still important to him, he became suddenly aware that he was not alone in the room, and was rewarded when he made a move as if to sit upright. A startled noise sounded from his right, and he felt a dip on the mattress as someone settled beside him. Kind hands framed his face and gently turned him towards…towards…he didn't know this boy. Well, he did and he didn't. He couldn't remember this boy's name, his age, let alone his favourite colour, but he remembered the feel of those hands that his skin craved, the callouses on them and their unusual size. These hands had been kind to him once, and, well, he hadn't noticed he was cold before till those hands brought with them their heated comparisons.

"How are you feeling?" a voice whispered to him. "When you didn't wake for _two days_ I-"

Those hands slid down his cheeks, to his neck and shoulders and side, burning points of contact where they touched his skin. He shuddered at the blistering heat against his frigid skin.

"Is it cold here?" he asked aloud, and was startled by the sound of his voice. He didn't recall what he sounded like, a light mid-tone tenor, rather pleasant sounding, he thought. The voice that rang in his ears sounded moderately young, untested and untroubled. It brought back no memories at all. "I don't know why, but for some reason it just- feels very, very cold."

The other boy made a pained noise and brought his hands up to his face again, urging him gently forward to kiss him. He relaxed into the kiss, drinking in the familiar taste as he isolated just where the cold stemmed from: his hands, first and foremost, and his forehead. No wonder he felt cold all over. When this boy kissed him, though, he felt the stir of some kindling buried in his chest, and unlike any of his previous thoughts, it seemed to entrench itself in his mind, taking root to blossom and grow. He kissed the boy back, harder, surer, and smiled when the boy moaned into the kiss.

The awareness he'd had of the room, he slowly realised, also extended towards the boy. He had a thick, broad frame, but that much he'd felt from his hands, slowly wandering from their delicate placement on the boy's wide shoulders, bulky with muscle. The boy was _fit, _he thought to himself with a little pleased mental exclamation. Although they were both on the bed, the boy half-kneeling above him, he was clearly not only much larger, but much taller than him too. Strangely enough he felt no fear or intimidation from that bulk, just a gratitude for the warmth that seemed to emanate from every inch of him as he felt the cold in his chest slowly begin to ebb.

As for the boy himself- well, he would be hard-pressed to call him handsome, exactly, but he was certainly striking. He had russet hair that fell tousled into his pistachio-coloured eyes, a strong, aquiline nose, and wide mouth. He thought that the boy's teeth were almost defiantly English as he curled his tongue over their veneer, and rather endearing.

The boy's mouth left his lips, although they kept up their stream of kisses against his face, down his throat, to his collarbone and chest. He was startled, however, when something wet scalded him even more than the boy's touch. Raising inquisitive fingers, he felt for the boy's face, and was shocked to find more of that scalding liquid wash over his hand. He tried to brush them away, shuddering when they fell on his left hand. He was feeling pins and needles beginning to build in that hand under the numbness of the chill, awareness slowly and painfully creeping back in.

"Are you crying?" he asked, astonished. "I don't understand. Why are you crying?"

"Please," the boy said, shaky and hurting, "don't. Don't ask. Don't- just- just don't." He could feel the boy's hands all over him again, trying to calm him with his caresses, but they were only spreading the alarm. The boy couldn't hide the way they trembled. When the boy drew back, he could see for himself just how ill the boy looked, with his sunken eyes and haggard expression. He pitied the boy, really, and tried to lend him as much comfort as he could. He reached for those hands to hold them still, and for a moment it was like the boy stopped breathing.

"It's okay," he said, "I'm okay. But you're obviously not. What's happened? Is there anything I can do to help?"

"I love you," the boy suddenly blurted out. He was stunned. It was the first time he'd ever heard these words- he knew this as surely as he knew the boy's touch. The boy had been the only one to show this to him, in this capacity, and he trusted that the words the boy spoke were the truth. Bemused, he frowned. He didn't understand why this would make the boy so uneasy.

"I love you," the boy said again. "I love you, I swear I do. Whatever it takes, I'll do it, just- just let that be enough. Please, let that be enough- for you to stay- for us to like this. Always, and forever. Is it? Harry?"

He was confused again, and slightly insecure. "Are you calling me hairy? Should I- should I shave or-"

The boy groaned, pained and sounding oh so lost. More tears were falling, burning as they touched his skin. He felt so cold, and the tears were cutting blistering rivulets where they ran down his skin, and yet there was no pain. When he looked down at where his hands rested on the boy's face they seemed largely normal, so he just hoped for the best. He did discover that it was easier for him to curl his fingers now, lubricated and thawed by the heat and dampness of the boy's tears. So he tried for the simplest solution he could manage, cradling the boy's head where it still rested on the same level as his chest, while trying to project as much comfort as he could manage through his thin, vulnerable skin.

"Hey," he said, "it's okay. It's all right. I- you too. You're not hurt, are you?"

The boy didn't answer, just continued to clutch at him, the blistering liquid falling on his skin and the large shaking shoulders evidence that the boy wouldn't stop weeping, even if he tried to keep his cries muffled. He didn't understand what the boy was so afraid of.

He had to see, he suddenly decided. He got it in his head that all this mess had come about because he was no longer able to open his eyes. If only he could do so again- well, perhaps this boy wouldn't be so upset anymore, and besides, when the boy smiled, he'd like to be able to see it with his own two eyes, rather than through whatever awareness he managed to 'see' things with now. It was a rather daunting task, because it felt as if there was a heavy weight settled atop his eyelids that was keeping them winched shut, even when he reached up with his hands and physically tried to pry them apart.

Partway through the boy realised what he was doing and gripped him with renewed desperation.

"You can't," he gasped, "please, don't-!"

There was a touch of strained pleading underneath the boy's words, though, that pushed him to try even harder. He could do this, he knew it. For both their sake's, he had to. Perhaps then he'd be able to remember who he'd been. Perhaps then he'd even be able to remember if he'd love this boy who so obviously cared for him, too.

"It'll be okay," he tried to assure the boy, taking ahold of his hands and locking them together with his stiff fingers in his lap. He kept straining against whatever kept his eyes closed, which was harder than it sounded, because half the time he couldn't even tell if they were open or closed. The boy kept babbling at him to stop, that no, he couldn't, _shouldn't, _do this, that this was the only thing keeping the pain at bay, that _please, please, wasn't it enough that they just loved one another-_

He couldn't remember who his parents were, what his name was, where he lived or even how old he was. But strangely enough, he could remember a little jingle he'd heard once, a bit of a tune that trickled through his head, needling its way through, wheedling past all the erected defences the same way the boy's cries pierced his heart.

It must have been part of a ditty he'd heard once a lifetime ago, and it went a little like this:

_'Close your eyes, and think of someone you physically admire_

_Let me kiss you; o-o-oh_

_Let me kiss you; o-o-oh;_

_And when you open your eyes_

_You see someone you physically despise_

_But my heart is open_

_My heart is open_

_To you…'_

He opened his eyes.

* * *

><p>The original order had been for Marcellus to implant a subconscious thought into Harry's mind, to have him forget, and close his eyes to all that had happened, especially regarding the horcruxes- he'd never be a threat that way- although Marcellus hadn't known such a thought would manifest itself in as physical a manner as this. His condition became quite telling, then, if Harry should ever break it, but Marcellus knew his son grieved every time he looked the boy's way. If Marcus felt even an inkling of what he did for Brunhild for this boy, then he could not imagine his pain, and hated his own involvement in the cause of that pain. Marcellus would not do his son the injustice in brushing their bonding off as puppy love. For one thing, to bond as deep and as rapidly as they had could not have been a decision undertaken rashly; Flints did not fall often nor did they fall lightly. Not to mention this boy had displayed power of his own right, having been able to, in his desperation, converge on a days' old bond after having underwent numerous magical fluctuations, and turn his own son's trait against him. There were very few who could even dream of besting a Flint at mind magics and apparently, this boy had naturally been one of them.<p>

And although he would never voice it aloud, Marcellus felt this was one decision his Lord had not handled well. He had all but effectively crippled Marcus, now that he and Harry were bonded, chaining his son to a boy that was little better than a tool. While his son's beliefs would not allow him to pitt himself against their Lord, Marcus would never be able to respond to their Lord again without that lingering resentment of Harry's treatment. Their Lord did not understand sentiment well, for all his intellect and learning, did not understand that Harry had already been on the tipping point where the Dark was concerned. For Marcus's sake alone he would have refrained from all involvement, and his being Neutral had all but sealed it in stone. He would have welcomed the opportunity to evade the fighting altogether under that excuse, and would have been the first to champion their Lord's efforts at retrieving the horcrux from him. If only they hadn't reacted the way they had towards the discovery of the seventh horcrux. If only the boy had stayed ignorant, or his Lord had not been so adamant, the Dark would have gained two tools, and his son would have been happy.

Barty had not been wrong to say that this way, Marcus would still have had his boy. But he would be remiss to say that the boy was all there. The original order had only been for the memories of the horcrux, but he had not expected the horcrux seated within the boy to have affected hi on such a deep level. And thus Marcellus had broken Harry's mind, again and again and again, stolen any traces the boy had of his identity, and wiped him clean. He knew Muggles had a saying, '_tabula rasa', _to illustrate a blank slate. The boy would be exactly that, save his mind would never imprint a thing again. The only thing he would remember was Marcus.

"Why did you do that?" Marcus had raged, had all but screamed at their Lord. He had only been told they would be removing any trace of the horcrux in Harry's memory- certainly not how. None of them had dared to forewarn him, not even a little. Marcellus knew better than anyone how effective his son's talents could be used in a battle, and he did not want this matter to be the impetus of what had the potential to be one of the worst fights in wizarding history. As it was, their lone other witness, Barty, was having great difficulty staying on his feet. He knew better than anyone how a Flint viewed their bonded; they might have been in their early days yet, but Marcellus could not have chanced his son valuing his heart over his head. Not when this much hinged on the decision.

"How could you do something like that to anyone- let alone to him! It could even be said that you knew his best out of us all, after having faced him each year at his worst. How could you take something like that away from him! Effectively he's been all but Kissed-"

"He will remember you," the Dark Lord replied firmly, showing no perceived insult, for which Marcellus was eternally grateful. "Is that not enough?"

"No!" his son had shot back immediately. "Nothing short of him complete and whole could ever be enough." His voice sounded wrecked.

The Dark Lord raised a haughty eyebrow at him. "Obviously, then this just means that you don't love him enough," he baldly declared to Marcus's shocked face. "If you cannot bring yourself to love him, regardless of what he is- then this was clearly a mistake from the beginning, one Barty, I'm sure, will be more than eager to help you rectify."

Marcus had clammed up immediately. Like Marcellus had noted earlier, their Lord was truly woefully inadequate where matters of the heart were concerned. He did not think his Lord would take offence to his saying so, would perhaps even laude his words as truth. But his Lord could not understand that it was hardly a matter of _loving _someone enough. Marcus loved, he truly believed that. Had Marcus known about their true intentions, he would have fought against them with every fibre of his being. For once Marcellus was thankful that telepathy lay with him instead of his son. He did not envy his son his empathy right now. Marcus had loved enough to defy his Lord. And he had loved enough to stay.

Marcellus had asked, quietly, if his son wanted him to do the same to him. He could make it so that their whole worlds would revolve around each other, and gave his word that absolutely nothing would interfere in their relationship again. But Marcus had stared at him, long and hard, with something like incredulity in his eyes before he shook his head, slowly, and said, "No. That's the coward's way out, Father; it's no better than allowing such a thing to happen and then to plead ignorance. Harry deserves better than that. I swore an oath, and even if he doesn't remember it, and I'll keep to it to the end of my days. But if you ask me, Father, _why, _I swear to Modred, Morgana and the Four Winds-"

"I love your mother," he had replied. "I don't have to ask why. I _know." _

Marcus met his eyes with a wizened look.

"Do you hate me now, for my part in this?" Marcellus had asked him.

Something in Marcus's eyes died that night. _You already know my thoughts, _the words resounded in his head. _Do you even need to ask? _

He had no clue then that those would be the last words he would ever say to his son. Perhaps, if he'd had some forewarning, even then, something might have changed. But he hadn't, and so the sequence of events went plodding on towards its inexorable end.

Around them the world continued to turn, unheeding of the slow crumbling of the Flint house in its midst. Hogwarts began again in September 1st as scheduled, with McGonagall appointed Headmistress in Dumbledore's place. Photos had been released of the drooping old man who, with his magic bound, was exactly that, and nothing more. Dumbledore was ailing, and fast. Popular sentiment was the stress of the Triwizard Tournament, combined with his Golden Boy's summons before the school year had even started, and the weight of his tarnished reputation had finally been too much to bear. Britain's wizarding world would mourn him, yes, but very few would actually remember him. The old man did not last to see the turning of the season. In this case, it was January that saw the cruellest month. His funeral was a quiet affair, attended by more of the Dark instead, who took measures to make sure that no ghost would ever rise from his grave.

As for the Golden Boy himself- well, as expected by a large majority of the populace after the events of the summer, he did not return to Hogwarts for his Fifth-Year, not that he could have. There was certainly no evidence to the contrary, and when some of the Hogwarts staff began their inquiries, an official statement was released saying Harry Potter had gone to study at bloody Durmstrang, Karkaroff would corroborate the story, now, wouldn't he? As expected, the public backlash was harsh, but without a visible figure upon which to sally their antagonism, the furore soon faded, and Harry Potter once more receded into the mystery he had first emerged from at the age of eleven.

McGonagall was hardly fooled, of course, but his Lord had managed to placate her somehow- neither party cared to go into the details of the proposition, and Marcellus would protect his Lord's privacy with his life. With the fierce Scotswoman at the helm, in tandem with his Lord, new changes were introduced into the Hogwarts curriculum, supported by Lucius and his ilk. The magic taught became a bit more balanced, a bit more Neutral, and his Lord had actually taken up the mantle of Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor, building his cause through more legitimate means, this time around.

The curse, of course, had no effect on him, and his Lord finally realised a deep-seated dream of his, buried long beneath his ambition and drive, but hardly forgotten. Personally Marcellus thought it would be good for his Lord to settle himself back in Hogwarts, and regain the experiences he had lost through splitting his soul. His Lord had retrieved all of the pieces save the ones in live vessels, namely Nagini and Harry, and no one had ever retrieved a horcrux from a live vessel without splintering both the vessel and the horcrux. His Lord wanted to be the first, of course, but he would not be trying that for some years yet. If Harry had been in his right mind, he might even have let his Lord try his removal methods on him, first. But he was not, and so his Lord was left with just Nagini to aid his experiments. Marcellus wished him well in his future endeavours. He would not live to see any of that happen.

He had felt it in his head two days after splintering Harry's mind when the boy awoke, if not for the slurred stirrings of his mind, already familiar as family, then certainly when Marcus projected his pained relief and despair so strongly that he was surprised half of Middleton wasn't up in arms. Marcellus followed Harry's stream of thought briefly to see how his mind had coped with the change. It had flowed quite smoothly with mindless chatter and random observations of his surroundings, utterly blank and as deep as a reflection with no hint of recollection or remembrance. Marcellus had taken that to mean his work had rooted itself deep in Harry's mind after all, and grieved privately, for both his sons. Marcus's mind took no pains to hide his grief, his thoughts sharp and rankling. Underneath it all Marcellus still heard the lullaby his son's mind sang to Harry's, of _love _and _peace _and _permanence. _He was both proud and humbled to know that despite everything, his son's intentions had never once faltered.

Something changed, though, when he felt Marcus's mind bow beneath his depression, and in its place Harry's mind rose, soaring above his thoughtless babble and wrapping himself around Marcus's grief. Somehow they had switched places, and Harry's mind solidified into implacable strength through trust in Marcus, supporting the weight of his son's sorrow with his achingly gentle comfort. Marcellus knew his son had a good heart, and once he finally reined his emotions back in, he would begin to see past his wallowing despair and care, for the boy. It was only good that till then Harry was-

At once Marcellus's mind stoppered at the thought. Once Marcus reined his emotions back in_- _Harry was _supporting him._ Marcellus knew, that as good as Marcus was, his training had never covered the kind of soul-wrenching grief he was feeling right now. The kind of soul-wrenching grief he should have, by all means, been swamping Middleton and possibly the entirety of Rue Morgue with and sent them all weeping to their knees. Marcellus could still feel his son's, and Harry's thoughts, so he knew the issue did not lie with his telepathy. And not only was there something dreadfully wrong with Marcus's empathy, Harry should never have been able to garner enough presence of mind to be a player once more in this game of mental strengths. The support should have been one-sided from Marcus, and Marcus alone. To actually have them _switch roles-_

He took off as fast as he could, shoved children and adults, men and women alike unapologetically from his path as he made his way to the rooms Marcus had claimed for Harry and himself. Gasping for breath, he threw open the doors to the most extraordinary sight.

Harry was kneeling on the bed, very properly, quite naked with his back facing the door. Marcus's head was cradled in his arms, thankfully still attached to the rest of his body, and Marcellus could see that his son was crying. But when Harry turned to face him, his eyes were open.

Only they were not the striking emerald he once remembered, so symbolic of the Boy-Who-Lived, Lily Potter's son. Rather his pupils were entirely milky, as if he were truly blind.

"You should have given me a choice," the boy intoned, one hand moving across Marcus's twisted face, smoothing his brow. "I would have stayed."

"I did want to give you a choice," Marcellus admitted truthfully, not quite able to hide the tremor in his voice. Although he had been the first to declare the boy had power of his own, he had not expected his little wire to have ever been tripped. Now Marcellus was caught, as the Muggles were wont to say, with his pants around his ankles. He did not find it a pleasant feeling.

"Marcus would call that a cheap excuse," Harry said baldly.

Marcellus swallowed. "And can my son no longer speak for himself?"

"Oh, he can," Harry hummed, continuing to run coaxing fingers over Marcus's mask-like face. It was eerie to see his son lying stiff as a manikin. Logically Marcellus knew Marcus should have been able to hear them perfectly well, but there was something unsettling about the stillness of Marcus's body. "He just chooses not to. He feels like he's said everything that he's wanted to say, and has nothing to add. I'm quite inclined to agree with him."

"I'm surprised that you aren't more angry, Harry," Marcellus admitted, "given what my Lord had me do. And what I might have done on my own, besides," he confessed. It was true. Being a telepath did not grant him additional sympathy. On bad days Marcellus suspected his telepathy actually lessened it. While he might not have agreed with his Lord's prescription for Harry, he would have freely done much worse if he ever suspected the boy of recanting their side.

"Please believe that I'm angry," Harry said, in the politest tone possible. "I'm extremely, exceedingly angry. I certainly don't appreciate what you've done for me, and I _certainly _don't appreciate what you've done for my godfather."

Despite the tone, Marcellus still shivered. Charlie Weasley had been a cut and dried case: memory wiped, and returned to his family. The whole brood had been told secretly that Dumbledore had saved them from an attack at great personal cost; that was the 'true' reason behind the destruction of Grimmauld Place and the old coot's exhaustion. The redheaded clan, along with the Muggleborn, had crippled themselves with grief and would no longer be any concern. The Muggleborn made it even easier by leaving their world entirely, too traumatised by the memories she no longer had. Black, however, had not been quite as easy.

If he had been released, even with his memory wiped, the man still stood a good chance if he ever pitt his destructive family magics against Marcellus's own mind-wipes. And if Black ever regained his last memories of his godson, he would be hell-bunt upon bringing down the Dark. Black was very much like a feral dog: rabid, untameable, and completely dedicated to single-minded destruction. With the tools he had at his disposal of his wards expertise and family traits, the man might have given the Dark's forces a decent run for their money. They would take no chances. Both Black and the wolf, Lupin, had been killed. Cleanly, at least, in Harry's deference, with markers raised to them both in Godric's Hollow beside Harry's vanquished parents. It had been the last thing Marcus had seen to, and his killing of Pettigrew. Their Lord had relinquished that much, at least. "Is this how the Dark repays her faithful followers?" Harry mocked, making him wince.

Marcellus was drawn out of his thoughts when he realised Harry was speaking again.

"You forgot, too," the boy was saying, only he was sounding a lot angrier, a lot deeper, and that much more familiar. "When you warned Harry about Black needing an Anchor, you forgot that Anchors weren't only necessary in rituals."

The bottom dropped out of his stomach. "Marcus?" he whispered, horrified. And then the words sunk in, and he suddenly felt like he couldn't breathe.

"You didn't remember at all, did you," Harry sneered, and it was an expression he'd seen a hundred times, a thousand times before, but on a different face. And yet there was something off about the intonation, which told him these words were entirely the boy's own. "You didn't care at all about me. I thought you knew your son better than that; I'm no better than a brain-dead toy at this rate. You couldn't honestly have expected him to be satisfied with this outcome, no matter whose decision it'd been. And you're wrong, _Father dearest. _I would have never made the connection about Anchors if it weren't for Marcus, but I wasn't lying when I said Marcus didn't want to speak to you. I don't know a son that would, to a father that damned him to little more than a half-life."

"Speak plainly!" Marcellus thundered, fear driving him as much as fury.

The boy laughed in his face. "Thank your family _traits," _he said with a curled lip. "You best of all should understand how imperative balance is, in a bond like ours."

He staggered back, the words hitting him like a solid blow. "Marcus- his mind- he-"

"None of your bloody training will do him any damn good now," Harry spat. "His mind is sunk so far into mine- tell your Lord he can kiss that piece of his rotten heart goodbye- and should I remind you what you've already done to mine? Care to do all that again- to your son's this time? You were a fool to even have offered in the first place. Obviously telepathy cannot cure idiocy," the boy added scathingly. "And don't even think of trying to break the bond," Harry continued in a heartbeat. "You'll get back something less than a vegetable if you do- Alice and Frank Longbottom would be considered top-notch compared to him."

Brunhild would never forgive him. _He _would never forgive him. His own _son-_

"Your family traits practically force two souls into one," Harry said, utterly ruthless. "What happens when one soul has to be split between two bodies?"

"Your magic," Marcellus gasped desperately. "Your power- you saw your own potential measured against the Dark Lord's that day. You brought my son to his knees then- can you break what I've done?" In that instant, he cared nought for the horcrux that he could feel just hovering at the surface, strangely passive in these activities.

Harry threw his head back and cackled, and if it weren't for the softness of the strokes applied to his son's face and hair, Marcellus would have feared for Marcus's life, more so than he already did. "Revolting against your _Lord, _Father?" he mocked. "It's too little, too late. What's done can _not _be undone without an equal price; I'd thought you understood the weight, the costof magic. After all, you lot were so quick to assert that the Light understood absolutely nothing when it came to this, lazy sods that they are," he said cruelly. "Looks like someone forgot to do his homework. As it so happens," he began again, falsely gay, "I can break your spell." Marcellus perked up immediately.

_"But-" _He stilled cautiously at the smirk spreading across Harry's face. "But I can only save one mind. Equal weight, Father dearest, remember. I can break your spell, and save Marcus, but it will cost you _your _mind. I'll even save your Lord's bloody soul. After all, _you_ were the one who cast this upon us both. Balance is, once again, imperative in this instance. Well?" the boy demanded sharply. "Is he worth it? Is your son worth it?"

"I-_I-!" _

He was immediately ashamed of how he couldn't get the words past his throat. Every nerve in his being was screaming at him to save his child, his flesh and blood, but he couldn't. Nay, not couldn't; he would not do Marcus the dishonour. It was rather that he _wouldn't. _

"Telling, isn't it," Harry murmured, and then all the gleeful malice that had been painted across his young face completely vapourised, leaving the two bond-mates wearing equally blank masks. "I think you should leave, Marcellus Flint. After all, there is nothing for you here."

Once more he tried to force his throat into motion. Once more it clenched up on him and refused to obey.

Marcellus could say nothing that would not damn him further, so he went.

He never saw his sons, either of them, again. In fact, no one saw hide or hair of Marcus and Harry ever again. The Dark Lord would never admit it, but Marcellus could read microexpressions as well as he could thoughts, and their Lord had been too shocked to hide how stricken he had been at his news. His Lord's response proved some balm on his soul, as it confirmed that the Dark Lord never wanted things to end like this. Not only had he lost his horcrux, but despite common opinion, their Lord _did _have some small modicum of empathy, and his original decision had been oriented at satisfying Marcus as much as he understood how. Harry- the horcrux- would have been well cared for under Marcus. That had been the outcome the Dark Lord had sought, although next to none of it had come about. Marcellus was one of the few who knew about their Lord's childhood, or lack thereof, and understood how the Dark Lord might have come to the decision he had concerning his son and Harry. He, however, had been remiss in not correcting his Lord, and his sons' loss was as much as his fault; perhaps more so, since he was the one who implemented the blockades in Harry's mind in the first place.

He was right about Brunhild though; she never forgave him this. She grieved everyday for the son she had raised and the son she had never known, and her overwhelming sorrow seeped into the very grounds of their bond. It all came to a head one day when he heard her scream, and then a crash from dropped silverware. Marcellus had run as fast as his aching bones allowed him, wand drawn, only to find Brunhild in the drawing room, an upset tray at her feet, but otherwise unharmed. Her eyes were fixed on the family tapestry, and the moment he glanced over he knew why.

He had seen the night Harry and Marcus had bonded, seen the gold strokes line the Flint family tapestry, forming one 'Hellion Jamison Potter', funnily enough, linked to 'Marcus Orion Flint' by a solid gold stripe. He had called Brunhild that night to join him before the heavy parchment, and they had cheered themselves with elf-made champagne, and their laughter then had been as light as the bubbles that volleyed in their flutes.

Now the names had smouldered to ash, and beneath them, twin dates each had appeared. They were born three years apart, but had died on the same day. The date inscribed told them Harry and Marcus had passed two days before. The boys hadn't lasted three months between them. It was even more damning that he had not even noticed their passing. That truly cemented how large the rift between them had grown that even the tenuous thread of their family traits had dwindled so thin and snapped without his noticing.

He moved to comfort Brunhild, who was weeping heavily directly in front of the tapestry, quivering fingers not quite daring to touch the heavy parchment. But when his hand fell on her shoulder, she had whirled about, wand out, and snarled, "You will _never _touch me again." He did not need his telepathy to tell him that his wife meant that with ever fibre of her being.

It was Harry's last vengeance, he surmised, strangely calm as he watched Brunhild march away with her wounded heart, the strength of the boy's untapped potential reaching out with blood-tipped claws even in death. Brunhild's mind was rejecting his, had slowly begun to over the past three months ever since Harry and Marcus's affair. Done so gradually, her mind would heal while his would not. His death would be a pitiless denouement into darkness, utterly alone as his telepathy began releasing its tendrils into his own mind, crushing it beneath the weight of its power now that Brunhild's would no longer welcome it. He was no less immune to his power's need for an Anchor than his son.

But Marcellus would not beg his wife's forgiveness, now partner merely in name. He would give her everything when she left, not caring if she would want it, or if he would be left destitute. It was not like he would live much longer on his own, besides, nor would he try to. He would not disrespect Harry and Marcus's memory in that way. He would share their fate, the same way how he had once caused it. His last thought was one of gratitude, that Brunhild at least was spared. Harry was quite discerning with his punishment. As his eyes slipped close he thought he heard laughter from a corner pocket, as though someone were waiting for him in the wings.

* * *

><p>Honestly, I hadn't meant it to quite be like this. The first epilogue I'd written was more in the style of 'all's well that ends well', with a nice, rounding summary to tie up all the loose ends. The more I tied, though, the more ends I discovered, and in the end I found myself in quite the cat's cradle with no end in sight. Eventually, the loose ends staged a mutiny and demanded to be tied up well and proper, which led to this. The tone changed very much over a very short period of time, and I know there will be a fair number of readers who will not agree with this. However, I still find this the most <em>apt <em>ending, I believe, certainly more so than that 'happily-ever-after' style it originally was.

As announced previously, the winner of my 300th reviewer context was TsaeDranFiegel, who requested a Harry/Justin piece. It's chaptered and swelled into something of a mammoth, but it's been progressing well, which is all I can hope for really.

On another side note though, there will be spin-off in this verse, a sort of epilogue, I guess, featuring Charlie and the mysterious Stephen Nott. It's looking like a oneshot, if a somewhat lengthy one, and should be up soon enough, hopefully to tide between the chaptered projects (o: Thank you all for your wonderful reviews, criticism, encouragement and support throughout this piece. And for this last time, do review!


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